Sunset
by Danae.Jenx
Summary: NEW! CHAPTER 38 POSTED. Two souls are returned to life a century after their deaths. Only one remembers the secrets of the past, but vows to bear them in silence. The other holds the key to redemption, but does not know it. EC.
1. A Presence

**Sunset**

by Dana Jenks

_A/N: Many thanx__ to my amazing betas _**Jill O'Brien** (chapters 1-14), **gravity01** _and _**Skoteinos Metamfiezomai** (chapters 1-38)! _They are the best!_

**Chapter 1: A Presence**

A tumultuous wind rushed through the streets of Manhattan, throwing dirt, tattered newspapers, cigarette butts, and litter into people's faces. Those on the sidewalks paid no attention. They pushed through the honking mess of traffic and crowded streets, intent on reaching their destination. No one noticed the strange weight in the air, the heaviness of sorrow and warmth, being dragged along by the wind. As the gust moved up Broadway and past the 96th Street station, it deposited its reluctant burden through the open windows of a large, 19th-century apartment before continuing on its way.

Christine Day cursed as brushes and paint toppled onto the floor, the sudden gust taking her by surprise. She reached over and shut the windows, before grabbing some napkins from the desk. Dabbing at the mess, she experienced the oddest sensation, as though she were being watched. It felt as if the air grew warmer, though the feeling was as subtle as the faintest caress of a brush.

Christine had been living alone in the old, seven-room apartment ever since her foster parents, the Allisons, had moved away a few years earlier. The management had tried their hardest to evict Christine and the Allisons from the building but failed every time. Due to rent control, the apartment was ridiculously cheap. The Allisons had asked her several times if she had considered a roommate, but she was happy living by herself.

_Alone...wasn't she?_

She cast an uncertain glance over her shoulder, wondering if someone, or some_thing_, was watching her. Her intellect protested. It told her she was imagining things, that the presence was nothing more than her overactive imagination. Yes, that was it. As an artist, she was prone to flights of fancy. Maybe she was so lonely, her mind had invented an invisible companion. Maybe it was the slow September day which stirred these feelings deep within her – feelings of sorrow, nostalgia, loss. But loss of what? How could she miss something which had never been there?

A stirring in the air interrupted her thoughts and she looked toward the door, where a warm breeze seemed to linger.

"Who's there?" she asked, somewhat foolishly. The little hairs on her neck seemed to have risen upon their own accord.

She waited and listened, but heard only the ticking of the clock.

'That's it,' she thought. 'I'm going out.' She could have _sworn_ she felt a sigh of relief. 'My mind is playing tricks.'

Placing down the brush, she took a moment to study the painting on which she'd been working. It was a silhouette of a solitary figure, the posture slightly hunched, as though harboring a secret sadness, a dash of white where the face would be. The brush strokes were jagged, the texture rough, the features ambiguous, the background a brilliant orange dissolving into smoke. The dash of white — a single, rapid stroke of the brush — stood alone in the darkness. She'd been working on the painting for almost a year and still did not know how to finish it.

Looking away, Christine tore her mind from the painting. She needed a break, a walk to clear her head. Grabbing a jacket, she left the apartment, took the stairs, and exited the building. Rush hour was worse than usual, and she winced, assaulted by the cacophony of honking horns and screeching brakes. She was just about to cross the street when a hand grabbed her arm. Startled, she let out a cry.


	2. A Close Call

**Chapter 2: A Close Call**

A hand clamped over her mouth. Christine felt herself dragged from the intersection, her captor's arm a vise about her waist, a wall of muscle pressing against her back. Scarcely had she begun to struggle when a taxi appeared out of nowhere, running the light at a furious speed, and crashing into the sidewalk where she'd been standing only a few seconds earlier. A few terrified screams, and it was over.

Christine stared at the rectangular shards of glass which had shattered upon the pavement. The tinkling of glass played over and over in her mind, mingling with a haunting melody of a music box.  
_  
I play for you, Christine. Only you._

Christine squeezed her eyes shut, so tightly that tears leaked out from the sides. She did not feel her captor release her, as though burnt, the warmth replaced by the coldness of the air.

A few moments later, she started as someone tapped her shoulder. "Ma'am, we need to clear the area."

Christine blinked, staring into the flashing lights of a police car.

A policeman stood impatiently in front of her. "Ma'am?"

Suddenly alert, she glanced around frantically. "A man..." she stuttered, "there was a man..."

The policeman started, "What?"

"He pulled me from the intersection," Christine stated. "I would have been dead."

"Partner, we need you over there," a woman interrupted, tugging on the policeman's sleeve. She turned toward Christine. "Please be on your way, ma'am. This isn't a show."

A _show_.

Christine shivered, pulling her coat closer to her body, as she walked quickly down the street. She tried to fend off the memory, but cruel words sprung forth nevertheless.  
_  
What do You want? Another show, another delightful divertissement? An encore, perhaps? _

But she could not remember a face, nor a voice, to match them.


	3. A Date

**Chapter 3: A Date**

That weekend, Christine rummaged through her closet, choosing a simple, white dress with flowers on one side. It was a new dress, given to her by Mrs. Allison for her 18th birthday. Christine would be wearing it for the first time. Christine studied her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was cropped like a boy's, her eyes clear and wide. Her figure was thin, her skin like porcelain. 

Christine despised her fragile appearance.

Looking through the bathroom shelves, she found Mrs. Allison's old, half-used containers of make-up. For a moment, she wavered between wearing make-up or not, and at the last minute, threw the cosmetics into the trash.

Just as she grabbed her purse, she noticed the strap was unraveling. Christine tied the threads into a secure knot, then cut off the loose ends. Hopefully, she could sell another painting so that she would be able to buy herself a new purse. As she inspected the bag, she noticed a bit of paint beneath her nails.

At that moment, the phone rang. Christine ran into the living room, breathlessly picking up, "Hello?"

"Chris, it's Ray. I'm standing outside your building."

Her heart gave a little flip. "Okay, I'm coming."

"See you soon," Ray replied, hanging up.

Christine felt a little guilty for not inviting him upstairs, but the apartment was a mess. The kitchen faucet was leaking. The wallpaper was peeling. The sink was filled with unwashed dishes, which had begun to stink. The studio floor was littered with dirty containers of paint, spoiled canvases, soaking paintbrushes, dripped-on newspapers. Her laundry was everywhere. She rushed into the kitchen and furiously scrubbed to remove all the paint from her hands. It seemed she had missed a number of spots.

By the time she arrived downstairs, she was sweating.

Ray Chandler looked dashing in his charcoal suit and tie. He drew her close and whispered into her ear, "You look beautiful."

Christine trembled, feeling his breath against her neck.

Ray led her to a limousine, opening the door. "After you, Miss Day," he said with a smile.

Christine felt butterflies in her stomach. "Thank you." It was the first time she had ever been in a limo, and the spaciousness was disconcerting.

There was a familiar stirring in the air, and Christine tried to ignore the feeling that someone else, besides Ray, sat beside her. As they rode to the Theater, Ray talked excitedly about his work in the movie business and future projects. Christine remained silent, not trusting herself to speak. The ride was surreal, but too short.

The Theater itself was less impressive than she had anticipated. It was the people, with their fancy dress and speech, who ornamented the place. Christine stood nervously by Ray's side, painfully conscious of the photography crew, losing count of the handshakes, the beaming smiles, the bubbly voices, the noise. She felt herself grow plain and small, wishing that she _had_ put on that make-up or at least some jewelry. The cocktail party was one hour before the showing of the movie. 'Only one hour,' Christine told herself, 'one hour of torture.'

"Ray," an elderly woman was saying, "so wonderful to see you again." She wore her hair in an elegant bun, a pair of diamond earrings and a necklace complementing her dress. "Perhaps you could introduce me to your friend?"

"This is Christine, the talented artist I was telling you about," Ray replied smoothly. "Chris, I would like you to meet Helene, a very dear family friend."

"How endearing," the woman remarked. She held out a hand, and Christine tried not to stare at the massive diamond which adorned the older woman's finger.

Christine's voice stuck in her throat. Her lips moved clumsily, but no sound emerged. The woman's gaze was like a hawk studying its prey. Christine glanced toward Ray, but he was busy talking with a woman in red.

There was a breeze, as though an unseen guest joined the party. Christine bit back a gasp as a surge of warmth surged through her, relaxing every one of her tense muscles. Christine forced herself to meet the older woman's gaze. "Pleased to meet you," she said, her voice surprisingly calm and steady. Her hand moved up on its own accord, engaging in a polite handshake.

"Charming," Helene commented, raising an elegant eyebrow. "And what exactly do you do?"

"Well," Christine began tentatively, "I'm taking art classes at the City University."

Helene gave a little, patronizing smile. "I mean, what is your _real_ job?"

Before Christine could respond, Ray turned toward them enthusiastically.

"Oh Helene," he grinned, "there is someone you must absolutely meet." He took Christine by one arm, and Helene by the other, turning them toward the woman in red, who was laughing with a group of men. "Ladies, meet Carol Tyler."

Christine found herself automatically shaking Carol's hand. She couldn't help but stare. The woman was gorgeous, not a facial blemish in sight, with a body to die for.

"Carol's the star in our movie—" Ray began.

"I'm the star in _every_ movie," Carol interrupted, flashing a perfect row of teeth.

Ray grinned, "She plays the murderess."

"I get to screw a few innocent men before I cut their throats," Carol cut in.

The men roared with raucous laughter. Christine watched as Carol cracked crude jokes. The laughter escalated like an overwhelming crescendo. People passed, pushing and shoving. All around, people shouted over the others to be heard. Cameras flashed. Christine began to feel trapped. There were too many people, too much noise, too much chatter, too much laughter. She turned to leave, then halted in mid-step, unable to look away.

A man was leaning against the wall. His profile was facing her, and he was watching the woman in red with a frown upon his face. His figure was tall and lean, his cloak an immaculate black, his raven hair loose and thick. He held himself stiffly, like a willow branch forcing itself to straighten. And his back—was his shirt simply baggy or was his back hunched?

His skin was pale, unnaturally so, and he stood with the stillness of stone, so still that Christine had to remind herself she was not looking at a statue, but a man. His face bore a youthfulness incongruous with the weary expression in his eyes. His features were angular, almost exotic, harboring a mysterious, haunting beauty. It was as though every feature had been molded with painstakingly tragic sensitivity, as though all harshness had been smoothed by years of corrosion. His cheekbones were high and sculpted, the strange white of his nose implying a quiet dignity, his mouth sensuous and secretive. When she finally gathered the courage to observe his eyes, she was fascinated by the way the shadows deepened them, obscuring their color with a thousand mysteries. Never before had she seen such beautiful hands, the fingers long and tapered like a sigh. Indeed, his entire appearance was elegant, unbearably sensitive, and beautiful, almost as though he existed solely for the artist's brush.

God, she wanted to paint him, wanted to memorize every detail, every expressive crease.

He gave a little sigh, his head turning slightly. Something white flickered in the dim light, and she realized, he was wearing a mask over the majority of his face. No wonder he looked as though made of stone! The effect was entirely eerie, almost sinister. She had not realized how much of him was hidden in shadow. His entire image seemed to darken in contrast to the whiteness of the mask. He seemed no longer beautiful, but skeletal. And his stillness...he was too still.

_He does not look alive._

In the blink of an eye, his entire appearance changed. He wore an elaborate, blood-red costume, a plush plum hat, pointed devil's shoes, and his mask—it was _horrible_ to behold—a painted skull with bottomless pits as eyes. He pulled off a blood-red glove in an exaggerated, dramatic sweep, and pointed an accusing skeletal hand at her. Christine gasped, seeing the brown stains of dried blood caked on his fingertips and underneath the nails. A little voice seemed to whisper, _Don't you want to know, Christine, what is underneath the mask?_

Was that the coiled end of _rope_ peeking out one sleeve?

Christine gave a small, terrified cry. She pushed through the crowd of people, heading out the Theater as fast as she could without running.


	4. A Dream or a Man?

**Chapter 4: A Dream or a Man?**

The cool air hit her face, and a voice called out from behind.

"Chris?" Ray was staring at her in concern. "I saw you leave. Are you okay?"

She managed a small smile. "Just needed some air," she replied, feeling the panic well up inside.

"You look pale," Ray observed. "The movie will be showing in fifteen minutes. Do you think you'll be well enough to return?"

Christine nodded.

Ray stood restlessly, before lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply.

Christine turned away from the smoke. "Ray, who was that man? The one with the mask?"

"I don't recall seeing a man with a mask," Ray replied. He gave a crooked smile, "I don't think anyone would have mistaken this for a masquerade."

"He was standing by the bathrooms, against the wall," she insisted. "His mask was white, covering half his face. I could draw him." She did not mention her other vision of him. She did not want to admit it to herself.

"That's not necessary. I'll look for him once we're back inside."

"You really did not see anyone?" Perhaps she had imagined the whole thing...

"No," Ray replied, somewhat puzzled. He took a few more puffs before tossing the cigarette upon the pavement. "Are you enjoying the party?"

"Sure," Christine lied.

"Isn't Carol cool?" he brightened. "You know, we might be working together on another movie."

"That's great," Christine replied with fake cheerfulness.

Ray didn't seem to notice. He glanced at his watch. "You'll be back for the showing, right?"

She watched him expressionlessly. "Yes. No. I'll think about it. See you inside."

"I am sorry I have to 'make the rounds', so to speak," Ray continued. "One moment you were by my side, and the next, you were running out."

He made it sound as though it were her fault.

"Why don't you go back inside?" Christine asked. "I'll meet with you once the movie starts."

"You sure you'll be okay, Chris?" Ray asked.

"I'll be fine."

Ray moved closer, his eyes staring into hers. "Hey," he called softly, "you're not mad at me, are you?"

For a moment, Christine thought he was going to kiss her. She took a nervous step back, breaking the spell. "Why would I be mad at you, Ray?"

"I don't know." Ray straightened casually, tossing the cigarette onto the sidewalk. "Well," he said, "see you." He turned and walked back into the Theater.

When he was out of sight, Christine released the breath she'd been holding. She crushed Ray's still-smoking cigarette with her heel, and sat upon the steps. She did not know why she was feeling so nervous. So preoccupied was she, that she did not notice how blue she was becoming from the cold.

Nor did she notice the masked man watching her from the Lobby.


	5. A Surprise

_Many thanks to my beta gravity01 for her comments on this chapter!_

**Chapter 5: A Surprise**

It was past two in the morning by the time the limo pulled up outside Christine's apartment.

Ray leaned over and whispered, "I would love to see you again." He reached out, squeezing her knee.

Christine stared at his hand on her knee. Ray had barely talked with her the whole evening, and she had not expected the event to last so long. Much of the time had been spent sitting around, listening to Ray and his friends socialize. They had gone out to a bar after the movie premiere, and the loud music and noise had given her a headache. By the time it was over, she was feeling exhausted and drained. She managed a weak smile.

"Goodnight, Ray." She turned, ready to leave.

Ray stopped her, catching her arm. "I don't think of you like the others, you know. You're _real_, not like them."

He stared deep into her eyes, allowing her a glimpse of vulnerability, before drawing her close. His lips touched hers, his tongue seeking entrance to her mouth. Experimentally, she let him in, feeling his tongue probe her own. He tasted of wine and cigarettes. She pulled away and reluctantly, he obliged.

"I'll call you," he called, as she stepped out of the limo.

Christine nodded absently, entering the building and dragging herself up several flights of stairs. She was grateful Ray had not insisted on walking her inside. What would he think, if he knew that the dress she wore was her very best, that all the others were old and worn? What would he think, if he saw the disaster her life truly was?

But she had seen it, the loneliness in his eyes.

Christine could barely take care of herself. She sold paintings on the street during the day. She took art classes during the evenings. She worked parties during the weekends. She knew it was nearly impossible to make a living as a painter. How many artists spent their lives working _for_ a dream, only to wake up one day, realizing that their entire life had been spent trying to _survive?_

She made most of her income from her weekend job, sketching portraits of very, very wealthy guests at fancy parties. She had met Ray Chandler while working at a party. It had taken place in the Rainbow Room at Rockefeller Center. The party planners told her to dress extra fancy, so she wore a dress rather than the usual black shirt and pants. When she left her portrait station to retrieve a glass of water, Ray mistook her for one of the guests. They struck up a conversation, and she discovered he was a friend of the birthday boy. After visiting his mansion, Christine suspected Ray was so wealthy, he really did not need to work. They had begun dating over the past few weeks. Christine wasn't sure how long it would last.

With his good looks, boyish charm, and privileged lifestyle, Ray could have any girl he chose.

Christine entered her apartment, leaning heavily against the door. God, she was exhausted, and the apartment seemed unbearably hot. It was as though a thousand pins were impaling her head. She tossed the keys upon the counter, washed the tears from her face, and spat Ray's kiss into the sink. The taste of cigarettes still lingered upon her tongue. She bent over the sink once more, and promptly vomited the very little she had eaten earlier that day. She rinsed away the mess, annoyed by her sudden, inconvenient sickness.

Then, she froze.

The kitchen sink was empty, the pile of dishes _absent_. The faucet was no longer leaking. Christine flung open the cupboards, gaping at the dishes which had miraculously been washed and put away. Her fingers traced the top of the counter, astonished when they drew no dirt or dust. The shiny white seemed to wink back at her. She opened the refrigerator, slamming it shut after seeing food – all fresh, all _favorites of hers _– stacked within. Her paintbrushes lay drying upon a newspaper. Her clothes were neatly folded on the sofa.

Christine took a moment to sit down. Who could have done this? Who could have known what type of foods she liked? No one possessed the keys to the apartment, except herself, the management, and the Allisons...

Yes, that must be it, as impossible as it seemed. The Allisons must have traveled the short trip from Boston to surprise her with a visit! Somehow, they had managed to clean up her massive mess _and_ go shopping in a mere few hours. They had probably left her a note and were sleeping in their old bedroom at this very moment. Christine walked past the dining room, peeking into the master bedroom.

The bed was neatly made and completely empty.

Her forehead crinkling in confusion, Christine checked her own bedroom. There, too, everything was placed in immaculate order without a trace of her foster parents. Christine stared, perplexed, at the new purse, clothing, and jewelry, which had mysteriously appeared around the room. She caught the fresh scent of flowers, and gasped at the sight of red roses, placed in a glass vase perched atop the windowsill. Each blossom was perfect, of divine beauty. Her favorite flowers...

Where were the Allisons? Where was the luggage they would have left, the note Mrs. Allison would surely have written? She wandered from room to room, searching in vain for a message, a clue, _some_ explanation.

Christine's paintings littered the entire apartment. Not only were several hanging upon the walls, her framed paintings covered up larger murals which were painted on the walls themselves. Everywhere she looked, she found herself facing another painting. Some were small, like the ones she had painted on the door knobs. Some were huge, like the ones on the ceilings. Without all the clutter blocking the walls, without the dirt and dust covering the images – they stared back at her with shocking clarity. It was disconcerting, finding paintings which she had become used to seeing every day, grow cold and clear in the dim light.

The apartment looked shockingly foreign. It was so tidy, so clean, so immaculate. It was unnatural. The spaciousness was unsettling. She was used to the protection of her possessions. The way the books were stacked, the paintbrushes so carefully sorted, the impossible perfection of the flowers...the exceptionally _anal_ touch was familiar. _But whose was it?_

No longer could she deny the truth of her situation. Someone had gone through the trouble to clean up her mess. Someone had managed to choose her favorite foods, accessories, clothing, flowers..._ and it wasn't the Allisons._

Her hands shaking, Christine attempted to maintain a degree of sanity. She reached for her unopened mail, a daunting heap she had managed to ignore for the past several weeks. She noticed many were from the phone and the electric companies, probably reminding her to pay her overdue bills. _Yes!_—messages from the outside world, the real world—something _normal! _To her immense surprise, the most recent ones were thanking her for her payment.

The letters slipped from her hands and tumbled onto the floor.  Who could have done this? Who could have created such...eerie perfection? Was this a cruel dream? A happy moment before something terrible crept along? An illusion of an oasis in the middle of a desert?

Could it be...an _angel?_

Christine blinked. What a ridiculous notion! She shook away a wave of dizziness. The scene spun, and Christine forced herself to stand straight. She wandered down the hallway, toward the kitchen, where she would make herself some tea.

Yes, tea. Something soothing to drink, something to clear her obviously confused mind.

She drifted past the studio, unintentionally glancing inside. With a gasp, she found herself staring into the eyes of a painted man. She had painted him on the wall in a silent, teenage rage, before covering up the image with several posters, which had begun to fall apart over the years. Whomever had cleaned her apartment had dumped out the old posters, leaving the wall completely bare. The painted man stared piercingly at her, his mouth set in a grim line, his green eyes harboring a furious disbelief, a stunned hurt. _Treachery_. The eyes seemed to flash. _You traitor._

She shivered and hurried past, growing more aware of the paintings staring at her, following her every movement_...waiting for her next mistake._

'I must get out,' she thought in senseless panic. 'I must escape this nightmare, this madness.'

Only a few more steps, a few more seconds before she would make it to the front door. Her legs trembled. To her horror, she found herself retching upon the floor.

Suddenly, she found herself facing a pair of black boots. She blinked, and they were gone. Or rather, they had _vanished_. She screamed as gloved hands lifted her from behind. One moment she was on the floor, and the next she was on the sofa. It happened so fast, that by the time she turned to glance about her, she only caught a glimpse of black cloth, as it slithered into the shadows.

Christine felt her breath quicken, looking frantically about herself. All speech left her tongue. Her breath stuck in her throat. She could feel herself watched, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. She counted the seconds, each torturous tick impossibly long, the clock absurdly loud to her ears. _One...two...three...four...five..._

Twenty seconds passed, and neither sound, nor motion, had been made.

The wheels of her mind began to spin, the breath she'd been holding passing silently between her lips. She forced herself up, her feet pressing unsteadily upon the carpet, but tumbled back in an undignified heap. She tried again to stand, more panicked with her second attempt. She felt so weak, so _drained!_ She clutched the back of the sofa for support. She had to get out! She had to escape! Christine sucked in a breath. If nothing else, she could scream. Yes, a neighbor would hear. A neighbor would snap her awake. A few shrieks, and someone would hear. Her lips parted, the panic forcing its way up her throat—

"Hush." The voice emerged directly below her ear.

The scream died in her throat. One word, spoken so beautifully and painfully, she felt her heart twist. She did not know why she felt so torn. She did not know that once upon a time, the voice had been expressive, rich, full of passion. Now, it held a terrible emptiness, a lifelessness. It was like a rose, plucked in full blossom, dried and frozen in its state of perfection. It was divine...in a stone-cold way. It sent shivers up her spine.

"Will you not rest?" The voice spoke kindly, like one might address a child.

Was that how she was acting? Like a child? Could it be _her_ who was acting ridiculous? Could it be her who was overreacting? Was the voice, too, a figment of her imagination? Was she truly mad? Was everything entirely within her head?

Through the midst of her panicked thoughts, she heard the angelic voice begin to sing, as though carried a great distance by the wind. She could not help but listen, mesmerized.

An exhausted numbness swept over her being. She did not see the dark figure detach itself from the shadows. She did not feel him tuck a blanket around her. She did not feel his hand linger upon her forehead. She did not see his expression grow concerned as he realized she was burning with fever. She did not hear him murmur her name. No, she had begun to struggle against the sudden lethargy. Her arms flailed blindly, her hand raking against something soft, snagging the softness between her fingertips as he turned around, attempting to leave. She pulled, not wishing to relinquish her grip, hearing him gasp as something soft gave way, coming loose in her hand. As consciousness eluded her, it slipped from her fingers, falling noiselessly upon the carpet.


	6. An Angel

**Chapter 6: An Angel**

Sunlight. That was what greeted her when she opened her eyes.

Christine sat up, blinking in confusion as a cloth, still damp and cool to the touch, tumbled from her forehead onto the floor. She felt sweaty and weak. She bent to pick up the cloth when she paused, noticing something glowing in the sunlight.

A single, white feather stared up at her from the floor.

Transfixed, she reached down and picked it up, holding the feather against the light, awed at the strange snowflake-patterned shadows it created. It was so beautiful, so magnificent, possessing a strange, silvery translucence. So caught up in her amazement, she almost forgot her initial confusion. _Almost._

It was only a moment later when she recalled the strange events which had happened last night. The evidence of her made-over apartment stared her in the face. She could not dismiss _that_ as a dream. But someone _carrying_ her, a voice _singing_ to her?! Surely, it must have been the fever. She had been delirious.

There was no way a man could have been in her apartment. Certainly not one with such an unnaturally beautiful voice.

No way.

But who had placed the cloth upon her forehead? Who had removed her shoes? Who had tucked the blanket around her body?

At that moment, the light shifted, and the feather seemed to wink.

_Really, Christine, why would you believe in the miracle of your apartment and not in the existence of your angel?_

Her eyes followed the shifting light, moving upward until they stopped upon a painting hanging on the wall.

It was a painting of a young girl, weeping as she knelt by an altar. Christine stared, her eyes narrowing as the colors seemed to come to life. What magic, what trick of the light, caused the tears dwelling in the child's eyes to gleam, as though they were real?

She lifted a hand, involuntarily reaching toward the painting. Her finger brushed the child's cheek, as if to wipe away the tears, when suddenly, she heard the child ask:

_Are you the Angel my father promised me?_

Christine gasped, shocked at hearing her own voice. She had spoken the words aloud.

Unnerved, she snatched her hand back, wiping her hand upon her pants when she froze. Her hand was wet! She brought a finger to her lips, tasting the salty residue of tears.

It was at that moment the painting seemed to darken, once again demanding her attention. This time, she could feel the emptiness of the cathedral, the coldness of the immense, stone walls, as though the very shadows beckoned her.

She heard his voice, the same one which had spoken to her the night before: _To you, dear child, I am both angel and teacher..._


	7. A Curious Development

**Chapter 7: A Curious Development**

Winter passed with surprising swiftness, and Christine was no closer to her angel than she had been when she'd first encountered him. She had tried everything, from talking to him when she felt his presence, to leaving him little thank-you notes around the apartment. Alas, the days droned on in his silence, and the nights remained long and lonely. 

Her life had changed drastically during the past few months, though all for the better. Someone had been taking care of her rent, tuition, and living expenses. Her angel continued to leave her gifts around the apartment. Sometimes, she would discover a new book upon her bookshelf. Other times, she would find a new CD upon the living room table. Her absolute favorite gift, however, were tickets to attend concerts, ballets, and especially opera. Christine had begun to learn a great deal about music from these experiences. When she listened to music, she felt a strange and strong yearning. It was as though her entire soul awoke to music. Indeed, she had begun to realize that her passion for music rivaled her love of painting.

In the meantime, her paintings had caught the attention of a wealthy patron, who was now commissioning her for several works. The patron, whom Christine knew only by his first initial A., paid her an exorbitant fee for her paintings. He had supplied her with a gallery in Soho, and even a staff to work under her. Christine made every effort to please her mysterious benefactor. However, all her requests to meet her benefactor face-to-face were denied. Likewise, the staff he had hired had never met the benefactor.

It was a sunny, Friday afternoon when the phone rang.

Christine set down her brush, wiped her hands, and picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Hey Chris," Ray began, "you remember Lou, the cellist we met last week?"

"Yes?"

"Well apparently, he was so impressed by your knowledge of music, he reserved us some tickets for a Carnegie Hall concert. I didn't want to offend him, so I took them. The concert's at 8 PM tonight. I can't go, but thought you might be interested?"

Christine brightened. "Definitely interested. Are you sure you can't make it?"

"I'd fall asleep," Ray sighed. "You know how I am at concerts."

"Yes, I understand..." Christine struggled to keep the disappointment from her voice. "Do you know who's playing?"

"Some new pianist," Ray replied. "Lou is completely crazy about him. I've never seen him so excited before."

"Oh." So, it wasn't a world-famous pianist, otherwise Ray would have recognized the name. "Do you know what pieces are being played?"

"I didn't ask. Listen, are you interested or not? I don't have much time to talk right now."

Christine shook off a twinge of annoyance. "I'll go."

"Great. I'll leave the tickets under your name at the Box Office. How's that sound?"

"That's fine."

Ray seemed distracted. "Good, I've got to go, but I'll call you later. Love you."

"Love you, too," she replied automatically. "'Bye, Ray."

Christine placed down the phone and connected to the Internet, looking up the evening's program. The pianist was a young man by the name of Erik Arnaut, and the heaviness of the program astounded her. It was not the pieces' technical challenges which impressed her, but the fact that they demanded immense musical maturity from the artist. Many of the works Erik Arnaut had chosen to perform had been written toward the end of the composers' lives. Christine was curious how an artist in his mere twenties would interpret a work composed by men who had already lived an entire lifetime. She had been expecting at least one show piece, perhaps by Liszt, Chopin, or Rachmaninoff. But not a single show piece was listed.

What emerging performer, whose future career was shaky at best, would choose such a serious program, _without a flashy piece to score popularity points with the audience?_ Even more astonishing was that the pianist was also a composer, that he dared to perform one of his own compositions during a time so antagonistic toward modern music.

It did not occur to Christine how she could know so much about music. None of her observations struck her as strange, so she did not question where she might have acquired such insight. No, Christine mused with an almost otherworldly detachment, as though she herself were far beyond her years. Nor was she aware that the pianist's taste in music perfectly matched her own, or that her angel had given her recordings of some of the same pieces Erik Arnaut was performing.

Christine's eyes drifted lower, and she noted, with astonishment, that the concert was "free" but "by invitation only." Why would anyone wish to _restrict_ the audience? And who, in New York City, could afford to stage a _free_ concert? However, it was mentioned that the concert was completely "sold out." Fascinated, Christine found herself researching Erik Arnaut on Google. There was hardly any information about the man, and she could not find a single photo of the pianist.

Although there was not a scrap of biographical information, Christine found numerous comments and rave reviews by listeners. "After the performance," one reviewer observed, "it was almost as though everyone had emerged from a trance." Another person noted the "absolute command" of the pianist over the audience. "Arnaut decided _how_ and _when_ we would breathe, if indeed, we were allowed to breathe at all."

Several people described the pianist as having a somber, stoic appearance, despite his apparent youth. Apparently, he was tall, thin to an almost painful point ("as one might have imagined Paganini" one reviewer remarked), with wavy, dark hair. "Not once did he smile," one woman wrote. "When he first stepped onto the stage, he seemed to be in his mid-to-late twenties. When he played, he grew ancient. His playing is as mysterious as the mask he wears."

A _masked_ pianist?

Christine sat back. What strong feelings this pianist had evoked! It was as though members of the audience were so overcome by the performance, they had, _upon their own accord_, created online forums and websites dedicated to this pianist...who had performed only a few concerts. Despite the plethora of reviews, not a single article was by a major newspaper. The entire affair struck her as surreal and unrealistic. The words written about him and his playing seemed too magical, too good to be true.

'It must be some elaborate hoax,' Christine decided. 'None of these reviews hold the customary restraint.'

Still, she couldn't help but notice, that despite this modern age, in which technology eroded the armor of privacy and mystery, _Erik Arnaut had become a legend in the span of a few months...and no one knew a thing about him. _


	8. Music

**Chapter 8: Music**

Christine was always running late, and tonight was no exception. In the midst of her rush, she had forgotten her coat, and the night was unusually chilly. Christine dashed from the 59th Street subway station the few blocks to Carnegie Hall. Breathlessly, she pushed her way through the crowd, intent on retrieving her ticket...and nearly tripped over a security guard who stood guarding the entrance like an oversize bulldog. 

He wore such a disagreeable expression upon his face that Christine was immediately taken aback. Nor did she recognize him as part of the staff who normally worked there.

As she prepared to reveal the contents of her bag, in hopes to assuage the extreme suspicion lingering in his eyes, the man demanded, "Your ID, ma'am?"

Quizzically, Christine complied. She had never been asked to show ID at a concert before.

He scanned through a series of papers in front of him. "Your name is not on the list. Please step aside." He shoved the ID back into her hands.

Christine protested, "There's a ticket for me at the Box Office."

"Sorry, but you're not on the list. Don't you know the concert is by invitation only?" His lower lip curled nastily.

"I have tickets," she repeated, wondering if he had somehow misunderstood. "If you only let me pass, I shall retrieve them from the Box Office."

"Are you with the press?"

"No," she replied, confused.

His eyes burrowed into hers. "You don't work for any TV or radio stations? You're not a reporter for any magazines or newspapers? You don't go by the title 'music critic'? We do not tolerate any critics to judge the music of Mr. Arnaut."

"I'm a student," she snapped. "I showed you my _school_ ID."

"Unfortunately, Mr. Arnaut plays only for those who have been invited."

"How about the name Lou Jensen?" Christine suddenly asked. "He's the one who invited me."

"It doesn't matter. You're not on the list."

Christine tried to explain, "Lou Jensen reserved his tickets specifically for me and a friend."

"This is an exclusive audience," the guard stated flippantly. "No press. No critics. No photographers. And absolutely no one who is not on the list." With that, he promptly turned his attention to the next person in line.

Christine shook her head in exasperation. No wonder this guard was not part of the normal Carnegie Hall staff! She turned toward the few staff members she _did_ recognize. However, they kept their gazes averted, their expressions oddly...strained. As she was a regular customer, shouldn't she expect better service?

Christine called out to them sharply, "Do you usually refuse people at the door before they've had a chance to get their ticket?"

"Ma'am," one of ushers began pleadingly, "we'll give you a full refund—"

"Am I to be prohibited from Mr. Arnaut's concerts forever?" Christine shot back.

"We're sorry, ma'am, but please understand that—"

"I will call Lou Jensen," Christine interrupted, "and he will tell you himself that he gave us those tickets. I will call Lou this very instant."

"Please do," the ill-mannered guard scoffed, much to the dismay of the usher, "and please tell him to refrain from giving tickets to uninvited persons in the future. We will not allow them entrance. We will not reimburse them a second time. We will not engage in any unwanted shouting matches in the Carnegie Hall Lobby. We will not—"

It was at that very moment when a cold and penetrating voice cut through the Lobby like a knife, stunning everyone into silence with a single word. The word was not spoken loudly; indeed, it was barely above a whisper. But it was the unusual timbre of the voice, along with its unnatural clarity and resonance which so struck the ear. It was the type of voice which could, should the speaker choose, torment the listener by forever lingering in his or her memory.

_"Enough."_

The change upon the guard's face was instant. His cheeks paled considerably, and several beads of sweat emerged upon his brow.

"Show Miss Day inside this very instant." The voice had quieted to a terrifying whisper. "She is to sit in the finest Box. You, Andrew, shall personally attend to her. Whatever refreshments she requests, whatever accommodations she needs, whatever blankets she wishes to warm her _toes_ – you shall see to the complete satisfaction of this _lady_."

There was a ripple in the shadows, before everything went still. The silence, however, only lasted a moment. All around people had begun to whisper, "What was that?" or "Good god, what a voice!"

Christine was left with the gnawing feeling of deja-vu. But her thoughts were interrupted by the stuttering of the guard. Andrew -- Christine recalled -- that was the rude fellow's name.

The man had been reduced to a flustered fool. "M-Ma'am," he stammered, ushering her inside. "I will take your belongings now...if...if you don't mind..."

"Why must you take my belongings?" Christine asked.

He threw a resentful, though nervous, glance her way. "No cell phones...no c-cameras either."

Christine nodded, and Andrew checked in her belongings, before leading her into the Hall itself. It was odd, not even having a wallet or pocketbook in her possession. Despite the obvious luxuriousness of the box, Christine sat awkwardly in her chair, grasping the program tightly with both hands, chewing on her lower lip. She looked around her, her eyes widening as she recognized some of the top musicians, artists, writers, scientists, and intellectuals from around the world. Andrew stood nearby, ready to respond to any request she might utter. But she remained silent. Indeed, the whole affair disturbed her...and the curious glances in her direction were not helping.

Without warning, the entire hall plunged into darkness. All chatter ceased, with the exception of a few whispers. Then, they too, died out, and all that was left was silence. Christine felt a tiny jab of panic. It was so silent, she dared not move. The tiny hairs on her neck stood on end, as a coldness seeped into her very bones. It seemed the entire audience held its breath.

It was at that moment when, emerging from the unfathomable darkness, came the tinkling of the piano. It was a simple melody, played alone, and without accompaniment. The music was so beautiful and mysterious, she felt a strangled sob well up within her. Never had she heard anything so exquisite, so lonely...so utterly agonizing.

"Oh," she gasped. "Oh..."

Her hand reached toward her heart, where she felt a tiny, painful twist, not unlike the time she had first heard her angel's voice.

As the playing continued, the lights returned slowly, barely outlining the pianist in the dimmest of lights. Erik Arnaut struck a tall, thin figure, his raven hair held ruthlessly in place by the tiniest amount of gel. His movements were graceful, but deliberate. He wore black, and the whiteness of his skin was startling. Christine could not shake the feeling she had seen him before, this beautiful man. He was so unnaturally beautiful, Christine was certain she had seen that angular, tragic appearance somewhere else before.

Christine watched as his fingers struck the keys in slow, silent dance. Each movement was perfectly controlled, carefully executed with deadly, fluid grace. Her lips parted slightly in frozen astonishment (or was that horror?), as she felt herself slowly suffocating in agonizingly slow music. She could not move, barely breathe. The audience was completely captivated and deathly still.

For the entire concert (in which the pianist allowed not even a single intermission), no one moved, not even to applaud between pieces. It seemed to last forever, this terrible, tortuous dream. Christine was not aware of the tears which had begun to run down her cheeks. The Hall dropped and drifted away, as she was carried from the place by overwhelming sound. She could no longer feel the floor beneath her feet, the softness of the chair, not even the flow of her own breath. It was painful to behold something so beautiful, so heartbreaking, so utterly devastating...and so terrifying in every respect. The music transported her to a realm beyond the human, a world in which her tears would have froze upon her cheeks for all eternity.

She sat immobile, as though struck by Medusa's deadly glare, for nearly two hours...

Finally, it was over, but Erik Arnaut did not move. His fingers clutched the last chord until the dying harmonies had become completely silent. Still, he did not move, forcing the audience to _listen to the silence_. After a terrible, torturous silence, he stood with a violence that startled everyone, staring out into the Hall with such intensity, it took a few minutes for the audience to react. The spell had been broken and violently so. Christine's soul crashed back into her body with such force, she felt as though the walls of her being had been bruised. Her fingers strayed to her pocket, where she kept her angel's feather, a familiar comfort and unconscious gesture. The applause was deafening, and Christine, for the first time, noticed his white mask.

Mr. Arnaut bowed, his face entirely impassive as Christine felt the hall quake with renewed applause. She studied his lips, the most revealing part of his face, how tightly he withheld the tension within. And what a beautiful mouth he possessed, his lips so peculiar in shape, yet so expressive. Then, with a shock, she remembered. She remembered where she had seen this man – he had been at the movie premiere, at the party Ray had taken her last autumn. It was _this man_ who had stood so strangely by the bathrooms. It was_ this man_ whose presence had caused her sudden distress.

Some audience members had begun to stand, clapping, and Mr. Arnaut returned once more to bow, before exiting the stage. The audience continued to cheer, but Mr. Arnaut did not return. People stood and shouted, the applause like a relentless roar. It was a few minutes later when people began to glance at each other, perplexed at the pianist's refusal to return onstage.

Suddenly, Christine was possessed by an overwhelming desire to meet this man. It was quickly replaced by an equally powerful fear that Mr. Arnaut might sneak away while the audience was still clapping. She might lose the opportunity to meet this man. She might never see him again if she did not do so now. It was this inexplicable dread that propelled her to turn toward the man who stood sulkily by her side.

"Andrew," Christine called urgently, "please take me to Mr. Arnaut. I should very much like to congratulate him."

A new fear flashed over the man's face. "Mr. Arnaut never sees any visitors..." he protested, his voice gruff and barely audible over the applause.

Christine smiled sweetly, "Certainly, it would not do for you to refuse me a second time?"

If it were possible, Andrew grew even whiter. He gestured for her to follow. "Come," he said, glancing about uncertainly. Taking her hand, he led her out the door.


	9. The Little Back Room

**Chapter 9: The Little Back Room**

It was with surprising ease that they passed through the backstage entrance and dashed up several flights of stairs normally reserved for fire emergencies. They passed through several doors (three of which Andrew had to unlock), turned many a dark corner, took an old-fashioned elevator to the highest floor, crossed a little courtyard, and entered a pitch-black corridor. Christine had been expecting a myriad of tunnels, some complicated maze...and she had not been disappointed. She would not be able to remember how they had gotten there, for the way was intricate, with several turns and twists, and through many locked doors. It was spooky how utterly devoid the way was of light, how their shoes left footprints in the dust. Not a single light-switch worked, as though the place had been empty and abandoned for a long time. Andrew lit the path before them with a small flashlight, and the shadows came alive in the flickering light. 

When her eyes adjusted, it became apparent Andrew was standing by an old, wooden door. He hesitated, before giving a small, tentative knock.

The silence mocked them.

Andrew managed a barely audible whisper, "Sir?"

There was no response, save for the eerie echo of his whisper.

Andrew's hands trembled, and he was about to try the door handle when Christine stopped him.

"No," she said softly, "it was my request. It is my responsibility."

She drew Andrew aside and stood before the large, wooden door herself. A cool gust of wind swept up from beneath the door, and she shivered, suddenly afraid in the cold, stony silence. She could smell the wetness in the air and wondered how exactly they had arrived at this dark, silent place from the bright, bustling concert hall, which seemed so far away.

After an indeterminably long moment, Christine raised a hand and tested the handle.

It was locked.

"I don't suppose you have the key?" she turned toward Andrew.

He swallowed. Reluctantly reaching into his pockets, he took out the large ring of keys, the jingle of metal sounding unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence. It took him several tries to pick out the correct key, for his hands were shaking so badly, he could barely maintain his hold.

Christine watched as he slowly slipped the key within the lock and turned.

The door opened so suddenly, they both jumped back in surprise. Andrew dropped his flashlight, which snuffed out like a candle upon hitting the ground. After a moment, it became evident that the door had been blown open by a violent gust of air.

The room was bathed in cold, clear moonlight. A Steinway grand sat in one corner of the room, next to an old wooden table and chair. Upon the table was a single, white candle, still smoking as though recently extinguished. The thin, ancient curtains billowed out like the sails of a wandering ghost ship, and the window was wide open. Christine rushed toward the window, leaning out in the cool, night air. She stared at the busy street over fifty stories below, then out at the sky which shone so brilliantly with the lights of the City.


	10. The Abandonment

**Chapter 10: The Abandonment**

"Let's go back." Andrew watched her from the doorway. "It's obvious he's not here."

Christine ignored him. She turned from the window and moved slowly to the Steinway. From the elegant woodwork of instrument's music stand and legs, it was clear the piano was very old, yet in extraordinary condition. She hesitated, then sat down at the piano.

A thousand sorrows filled her, and she closed her eyes, imagining another sitting beside her.

"Don't touch that!" Andrew interrupted sharply.

Christine started, snatching her hand back which had, upon its own accord, rested upon the piano lid. She had been ready to open it.

The guard snapped, "Are you done yet?" He did not dare set foot inside the room.

She continued to sit upon the bench, savoring the perfect intimacy of the room. Erik Arnaut's playing had awakened something within her, a yearning within her soul. She did not know why she lingered here, why she was so reluctant to leave. Even if she were not aware of it, her soul knew that once she left this place, life would feel even more empty than before. _Now that she had felt a shadow of what once was..._

Click-click. Click-click. Andrew had picked up the flashlight and was fumbling with the switch. It was clear the appliance was broken.

"Stupid piece of junk," he muttered, "as though the rich bastards couldn't give us anything better—"

At that moment, it seemed a large bird flew past the window, blotting out all light for a fraction of a second. Andrew gave a terrified cry, turned tail, and fled, his panicked footsteps echoing down the corridor.

"Andrew!" Christine exclaimed in dismay. She stood, rushed across the room, and peeked down the hallway. As she squinted into the shadows, she could barely make out the footprints in the pale, cold moonlight which stretched angularly upon the dust-covered floor.

Christine took several tentative steps, silently following the trail of footprints. "Andrew?"

The large, metal door through which they had entered the corridor gleamed eerily in the dim light. It seemed at once the only barrier between her freedom and this abandoned, foreboding place. She was about halfway down the hallway when a muffled thud came from the tiny room she had just vacated. Christine whipped around with a start, her eyes widening as the dust by the doorway scattered into tiny sparkling swirls before settling again upon the ground.

The wooden door to the moonlit room slammed shut, cutting off all light.

Christine went perfectly still, blinking uselessly in the darkness, feeling the gooseflesh rise upon her arms. She clung to the wall, stifling a gasp as a sliver of flickering, yellow light appeared beneath the door, as though someone had lit a candle. There had been no one in the room before, and people could not appear out of thin air.

_Someone was inside the room._

Her mind kept insisting that somebody must have entered while her back was turned. It had been dark, even with the moonbeams lighting her way. She could have missed the person while she walked down the hallway. Surely this person must have entered while she was not looking...

It was in this paralyzed fear that she saw herself facing a lonely tombstone, standing half-buried in roses. She did not know whether she was the one who had brought these roses, or whether she herself was to be included in their sacrifice. _Why did she stand so patiently, waist-deep in the fragrant blossoms, waiting to be slaughtered like a lamb?_

Christine was not aware of the wooden door which had opened during the assault of her memory. Nor of the glowing eyes which had settled upon her frozen form. For many a nights to follow, Christine would wonder how long Erik Arnaut had been watching her, for when she awoke with her sanity, he was standing quietly in the doorway, staring at her with an unfathomable expression upon his face.


	11. The Encounter

**Chapter 11: The Encounter**

Christine gave a start, unnerved by the sudden appearance of the man.

"I saw you at a party," she blurted, attempting to keep the tremor from her voice and completely forgetting her original intention of congratulating him on his performance.

Mr. Arnaut remained silent. He was dressed in the same black garb he had been wearing at Ray's party, in addition to a hat, gloves, and scarf. Only his eyes, lips, and a small portion of his cheek were revealed. He was tall and so very thin, the absolute black of his clothing contrasting with the paleness of his skin and mask, which glowed faintly in the moonlight.

"I mean, a party I'd attended months ago," she continued awkwardly. "A movie premiere at the Drama Theater. This past autumn, to be exact."

He was so still, Christine wondered, for a split second, whether she was talking to a statue. Indeed, it was as though he were made of smooth marble, whose color has been bleached away over years in forced sunlight. His posture was peculiar, as though he were stooping. Yet it was clear he was not, only that his back seemed hunched.

The silence dragged on, before he finally spoke. And even then, only his lips moved. "I have never cared for parties."

Her breath tightened within her chest. It was the same curiously hypnotic voice which had spoken in the Lobby. Christine shivered at the realization that she could die happy, if only to hear his voice. If he wanted her, he only had to call to her in that irresistible voice of his, and she would be _his_. She had never felt so terrified, so intensely excited before. Her heart beat with the wild murmur of a hummingbird's. Even if she were not conscious of it, her soul already knew the danger of his voice. The entire experience was immensely disturbing.

"Did you work on the movie?" she asked, out of mad desire to hear him speak again, " 'The Red Lady,' I believe, was its title."

"No, madam, I merely came for a friend." Mr. Arnaut replied elegantly, with a hint of an accent. 

"Me, too," Christine replied, her stomach in knots, a strange sorrow overwhelming her.

The silence stretched on. Whereas Mr. Arnaut remained stoic in the silence, Christine grew increasingly nervous. There was something unnatural about the man in front of her, something almost _superhuman_. He stood so comfortably in the darkness, far too comfortably, without the caution of a normal human being. It was as though he were a creature of darkness. And his figure – it was so abnormally elongated in the most peculiar, beautiful way. Like those straining figures in El Greco paintings. Or the wavy man in Munch's "Scream." There was a sunset in Munch's painting, too, wasn't there? Just as in her own unfinished painting... But how horrific Munch's sunset was in comparison to her own. What had it been described as, but a "blood red" sky?

What if the man before her were a ghost? What if he were a— 

A stray hair fell upon his face, giving him an almost boyish look. Christine blinked. He looked so uncomfortable under her scrutiny, suddenly vulnerable.

'No, he's just a man,' she told herself.

What nonsense had she been thinking a moment ago? She resisted the urge to move the hair away from his eyes. She tried to guess his age. Late twenties, early thirties? But his eyes confused her, as though they had witnessed a million deaths.

"I see Andrew has abandoned you," he announced abruptly, his sea-green eyes averted, "and I must return you to the Hall." The intensity in his eyes was replaced by a deep weariness, and his expression was something like embers, which linger and flail before all is dark and silent. 

"Oh," she blurted with a tremor, "I almost forgot. I left my bag in the Lobby."

He was not paying attention to what she was saying. "You're shivering." His voice held a quiet alarm. He removed his cloak, along with his hat, gloves, and scarf, and slipped them into her hands before she could react. "Here, put these on."

Christine noticed how he grew alive in his concern for her, how he handed her the items so carefully, how his hands hovered near hers before drawing back as though afraid to touch her. Christine couldn't help but observe the way his hands reflected the dim light, the smoothness of his flesh, devoid of any wrinkles, and the immaculately-trimmed, glass-like appearance of his fingernails. As he withdrew, Christine's eyes involuntarily flickered to the strange bulge in his back, now obvious in the absence of the cloak.

Instinctively, Mr. Arnaut shifted farther into shadow. "The Hall will soon close. Follow me." His voice had once again retreated into that cold, deathlike embrace.

She nodded, and he turned, ready for them to leave.

On impulse, Christine called out, "Mr. Arnaut..."

He stilled, his mask facing her.

"I cannot," she faltered, "I cannot accept these."

"I insist." It was a command, not to be questioned.

Christine slipped on the garments, enjoying the soft silkiness of the fabric. No doubt they must be made of very expensive material.

Mr. Arnaut made an impatient gesture and muttered under his breath, "Come, we must return."

Christine froze at his words, her mouth opening in silent recognition. She touched his shoulder, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

"Do we—have we met each other—I mean, before the movie premiere? Do we—do we know each other?"

She felt him tense beneath her touch, felt his sharp intake of breath.

His mouth opened, the only visible hint of surprise. For a moment, he gazed at her so peculiarly, Christine felt as though she were being dissected and analyzed bit by bit. He extricated himself from her grasp with a studied deliberateness.

"No, madam..." he replied softly.

His voice trailed off as though he yearned to say more. He turned and gestured for her to follow.

She hurried to keep up, confused by her scattered emotions. She was certain she knew him, but from where? She wrapped the scarf more tightly about her, smelling the faint scent of cedar and cologne. _His scent. His warmth. _What she did not realize was that for a fraction of a second, she had felt cherished in his presence, so absolutely cared for. She had felt _loved_.

It was a feeling she had not experienced in a very long time, and she did not recognize it.  



	12. An Enigmatic Man

**Chapter 12: An Enigmatic Man**

The way back to the old-fashioned elevator was conducted in an almost ceremonial silence. The masked man barely uttered a word, and when he did, it was not more than one or two words at a time. Christine did not notice that, as they walked together, hers were the only footprints left in the dust. 

As they rode in the elevator, Christine suddenly asked, "Why did you defend me in the Lobby?"

Mr. Arnaut remained silent.

"Andrew works for you, doesn't he?" she continued. "You were the one who demanded he grant me entrance to the concert. Why did you do it?"

He held the door open for her, and they passed through a moonlit courtyard, before entering another dimly-lit building.

"You said yourself you had tickets," he replied indifferently.

"You could have done nothing," Christine pressed, surprising them both with her boldness, "but you insisted that 'Miss Day' be treated 'like a lady'".

He refused to meet her gaze. "You are correct, Madame, to accuse me of pretending to be a gentleman through my treatment of you as a lady."

Christine did not know whether to be offended or encouraged by his response. In frustration, she completely missed his lapse into French, his calling her 'Madame' rather than 'Madam'. And even then, he should have called her 'Mademoiselle'. But Christine did not notice this.

Instead, she asked, "If we do not know each other, then how did you know my name when you spoke of me in the Lobby?"

They began the long descent down the emergency fire stairwell. Again, the conversation was stalled by her companion's silence.

It was only at the bottom step that Mr. Arnaut stated, "It is my business to know, and it is a knowing which is none of your business."

Christine bristled at his response and began to protest. Mr. Arnaut, however, threw open the doors to the Hall and strode into the darkened Lobby. It was clear that the Hall had closed a while ago, and Christine wondered how long she had been in the other, abandoned building.

"Stay here," he ordered, beginning to walk away, "I shall retrieve your belongings."

Running after him, Christine reached out to catch his arm. "Wait."

Erik Arnaut whipped around with uncanny speed, causing Christine's fingers to brush against his own. He snatched back his hand, but it was too late. An overwhelming feeling rushed through her being, shaking her to the very core. Christine gasped, staring at him in confusion, shock, and fear. She could feel him staring through her, with the penetration of a power beyond the limits of her mortal comprehension. With growing dismay, she realized her soul had been exposed to him the entire time, that he could read her as easily as a single note of music. Never before had she experienced such absolute vulnerability. It was a feeling which both embarrassed and terrified her. She could not prevent the subsequent blush from blossoming upon her face.

"I-I should not like to be left alone," she stammered when she had found her voice again.

Mr. Arnaut wrenched his gaze from hers, as though sensing her unease. "Very well," he replied coldly. "Follow me."

They walked in silence to a little coat room, where he effortlessly plucked her bag from the darkness.

Christine muttered, "I forgot my coat at home."

"So it seems," was all he said, before glancing at his watch, again demonstrating that cat-like vision. "It is nearly midnight. How are you getting home?"

"I'm taking the train." Her voice betrayed a certain defiance. Somehow, she knew he would not approve.

"Where do you live?" he asked, still keeping his eyes averted.

Christine squashed the irrational suspicion that he already knew the answer to his own question. "Near Columbia University," she replied with an equally indifferent tone.

Mr. Arnaut did not look at her. "I live in that area as well. My chauffeur will be arriving soon. Perhaps you would like a ride?"

"Fine," she replied.

He ignored the clipped tone in her voice, instead making a call on his cell phone, speaking rapidly in a language she had never before heard.

After he had hung up, Mr. Arnaut turned toward her, answering the question she had never asked.

"It is Basque," he explained, with the patient tone of teacher to student, "an ancient language said to be more difficult than Hungarian." Abruptly, as though realizing what he was doing, he stopped.

Christine watched him curiously, his unexpected didactic manner stirring something deep and familiar within her. "Where exactly is Basque country?"

"It is split between France and Spain," he replied, with some reluctance. Then, he turned, looking out the main entrance, "Come, our ride is here."

Momentarily distracted, she stared at the black car which was waiting outside. There was nothing extravagant about it, nothing like Ray's limo, yet Christine found the interior surprisingly comfortable. She appreciated the ability to ride in a vehicle which would not attract attention.

"Your address?" Mr. Arnaut asked.

"You may drop me off at the corner of 103rd and Broadway."

Erik Arnaut sat in the back with her, giving directions to the driver. The chauffeur nodded and stepped on the gas.


	13. LockOut

**Chapter 13: Lock-Out**

Nothing which had happened that evening was anything Christine had expected. Little did she know that the night was far from over. Mr. Arnaut sat on the opposite side, keeping himself as far away from her as possible, staring stiffly out the window. The mask was presented in her direction, and Christine observed him in the dim light. He seemed to grow increasingly uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

"You played beautifully tonight," she ventured, studying him beneath her lashes.

Mr. Arnaut gave a slight nod, before turning back to the window.

"I particularly liked your Piano Sonata...It touched me very deeply." She gazed out the window, watching groups of people streaming down the sidewalk. "Somehow, the music reminded me of something--"

He absently played with a pencil, causing it to appear and vanish between his fingers. "It was written a long time ago," he murmured, "for a woman who never heard it." 

"I'm sorry." She did not know why she felt so guilty.

"Don't be. She was never supposed to hear it."

The car cruised up Broadway and stopped at a red light. It had begun to rain. "So," she changed the subject with fake cheerfulness, "when is your next concert?"

"There won't be another concert."

Christine gave a little laugh. "I hope it's not because of me?"

It was the smallest of motions, the slight stiffening of his shoulders, but she noticed it. "Of course not."

She stole a few more glances at him, frustrated by his lack of conversation. "I'm sorry my presence so offends you, sir, but please don't quit on my account. I simply won't attend." A touch of sarcasm had entered her voice despite her best efforts. 

He turned toward her, his eyes flashing. "There is no reason to discuss this, Miss Day. There will be no next concert. There will be no next meeting. Tonight was an unfortunate accident, and it shall not be repeated." The car pulled to the side, and Mr. Arnaut gestured toward the street. "Your stop."

Christine watched him with a mixture of shock, anger, and stunned hurt. She had no idea how they had gotten to her street so quickly, but glancing outside, she saw the familiar steps of her apartment building. She stepped out and slammed the door. The rain beat down upon her hair, her nose, her cheeks. Walking toward her building, she searched her bag for her keys. A few minutes passed with no success. She tried her pockets, finding them empty.

"Damn." Her fingers were trembling, and she wondered how a stranger could upset her so deeply. She realized the rain had soaked her shoes and the cold was seeping into her feet. _"Damn!"_

It did not occur to her that he might be as irked by her company as she was with his.

Turning around, she bumped into Mr. Arnaut who, to her astonishment, was holding a massive umbrella above them both. He reached out and quickly steadied her. His touch, though warm, was fleeting. They stood mere inches apart, and Christine found herself staring at his lips.

"I don't understand how I could have lost my keys," she blurted.

He regarded her expressionlessly before gesturing toward the car, "Come."

"This has not happened in years!"

"Please get into the car, Miss Day." He held the car door open for her.

"Listen, I'll just go to a friend's. I just need to make a few phone calls. I can take the bus or something--"

He released an exasperated sigh. "Don't be foolish."

Christine bristled, "I don't think you have any right to judge."

She refused to enter the car, whipping out her cell phone and leaving a message on Ray's home phone. Then, she tried Ray's cell phone, but it rang and rang. It was nearly 11:30 PM. After a brief hesitation, she phoned the building's superintendent. No one answered. The anxiety welled up within, and she resisted pacing back and forth in agitation.

Minutes passed silently as Christine pondered her situation. She had nowhere else to stay and very little money. She was acutely aware of Mr. Arnaut standing motionlessly beside her, still shielding them from the rain. Finally, Christine turned toward her companion. "I'm sorry you've been dragged into this. If you need to go, I won't keep you."

Mr. Arnaut turned toward her, his eyes surprisingly gentle when they met her own.

"You may stay with me." His tone was softer than before, and the weariness she had witnessed earlier had returned. "I have an extra room."

Christine hesitated, stunned and suspicious by the generosity of his offer.

"The room has its own bathroom and lock. You may stay as long as you wish." It was uncanny how he seemed to sense her suspicion, for his tone had turned cold and impersonal once more. Even his eyes were steel. "I will respect your privacy...as long as you respect mine."

She shivered at his last words. "I...I'll...Give me a moment to think."

Mr. Arnaut nodded, abruptly breaking eye contact and looking away.

Christine released the breath she did not realize she'd been holding. They stood awkwardly for another moment. Glancing at her watch, she realized it was already midnight. Ray had not called her back.

"I guess I'm staying at your place tonight," she said, hiding her discomfort with a smile. "Thank you."

He did not respond, instead gesturing for her to go inside the car. With a slight hesitation, Christine stepped in. As they drove away, she cast a final glance toward her apartment building and wondered why her angel had abandoned her to such a perplexing man.


	14. His Home

**Chapter 14: His Home**

As soon as Christine set foot in Mr. Arnaut's apartment, she was stunned by its austere perfectionism. Only a few paintings, books, and musical instruments decorated the room, and the arrangement of every item – from a lone pencil to the ornate cembalo – had been carefully decided. What disturbed her most were the bare shelves and tables. It hardly looked 'lived-in'. No food lying around, no stray clothing, no papers, no signs of technology. No computer, TV, radio, or stereo. She had expected a lavish home, yet it was clear Mr. Arnaut lived simply and minimally, the most expensive item in sight being the Bosendorf grand which sat splendidly in the center of the living room. A few lamps dimly lit the apartment, and Christine had the impression she had stepped right into the 19th century.

She took the opportunity to return Mr. Arnaut's cloak, hat, gloves, and scarf to their rightful owner. To her immense surprise, Mr. Arnaut did not hang up the items, but instead slipped on the garments, covering his hands, his neck, his hair...Immediately, Christine felt his presence grow dark, mysterious, and deadly.

"Are you going out...again?" she asked, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. 

Mr. Arnaut ignored her. If he realized his actions were strange, he gave no indication. Without responding, he strode away, moving toward a large mahogany desk on the left side of the room. He opened a drawer, took out a ring of keys, and left it upon the desk.

"Here are the keys for the guest room and front door. The guest room is past the kitchen, at the end of the hallway to your left." A cat suddenly appeared and arched against his legs. Mr. Arnaut immediately turned his attention to the animal. "Excuse me..."

Christine watched, perplexed, as her host abruptly left. She walked over to the desk, picked up the keys, and followed in the direction he had disappeared.

Mr. Arnaut was in the kitchen, bending over a blue-eyed, snow-white cat. His eyes, previously an icy green, grew soft, warm, and golden. Christine did not know how it was possible, the way faint, amber halos glowed around the irises. She blinked, and the halos vanished. As his fingers glided over the cat, the animal turned its penetrating, unblinking, and accusatory glare upon Christine.

Unnerved, Christine averted her gaze.

Mr. Arnaut was mixing an elaborate meal for his pet, consisting of canned food and warmed, raw meat. Small, unmarked bottles lined the counter, and Christine couldn't help but stare as he added the contents of a few bottles to the animal's meal.

"Perhaps you would like to retire to your chambers, Miss Day." He set the cat's plate upon the floor whereupon the animal immediately began eating. "Follow me."

They walked through the kitchen, turning left down a hallway. On either side, there were closed doors. The guest room chosen for her was at the end of the corridor. It was a most peculiar New York apartment.

Mr. Arnaut held out a hand. "The key?"

Christine handed it to him.

He unlocked the door, handed her back the ring of keys, and left without another word.

Alone, Christine closed and locked the door, before taking the opportunity to observe the room. It was small and simple, with a bed, dresser, window, closet, and mirror. The most interesting item was a portrait of a woman, possessing very delicate features. The woman's expression was peaceful, as though completely unaware of the stormy texture which formed her face. Stepping closer, Christine could see the rough, dark, and crude brush strokes which comprised the woman's face. Such brush strokes could only have been made by very violent strokes. Christine shivered at the intense passion so rendered in the act of the artist brutally slapping on the paint.

The room had its own bathroom, and Christine was stunned to find it stocked with brand new toothbrushes, toilet paper, toiletries, and towels. In the closet, Christine found a variety of female garments, from underwear to evening gowns to casual sweats.

'Mr. Arnaut must have a lady guest who visits from time to time,' she mused, impressed by the sheer number of feminine items. 'A very special lady'.

She took out a nightgown and tried it on. It was a perfect fit.


	15. A Waking Dream

**Chapter 15: A Waking Dream**

A feather was falling. She reached out and plucked it from the air. It was white, the purest white she had ever seen, and soft, like snow would be, if it were not able to melt. Somewhere, she heard a quiet sobbing. It was strange, how grief could sound so musical.

This was the dream from which Christine awoke. It filled her with a forgotten sadness, an emptiness only remembered during sleep. 

It had been a very long time since she had dreamed. When she was younger, she used to dream every night. She would hear the most beautiful singing – a lovely soprano in counterpoint with a dark baritone which, despite being overwhelmingly familiar, she could not place. Sometimes, the baritone would sing to her alone, lullabies in strange languages, built upon exotic harmonies. Other times, he'd sing her stories, adventures of faraway places and distant lands. Each story would become a dream, a dream which would erase all the nightmares from her life with one vision.

Her eyes shooting open, Christine abruptly sat up in the bed. She blinked several times, observing the foreign surroundings in confusion, before remembering last night's events.

_Was she really in the home of a stranger?_

Somewhere, in the distance, came the tinkling of the piano. The pianist played so delicately, it sounded as though the keys were made of glass. It was haunting, the type of melody which, despite its transitory nature, left a shadow.

Rising from the bed, Christine wandered toward the window, lifting the curtains to let in the sunlight. Outside, not far below, was the most beautiful courtyard she had ever seen. Roses, lilacs, chrysanthemums, lilies, lavenders, forget-me-nots, and a plethora of flowers she could not name – all these lay in full and perfect bloom. Toward the center was a fountain, surrounded by elegant stone benches, hidden among vine. How could such a place exist in the middle of spring, in the heart of Manhattan?

Christine stared for several moments, before releasing the curtains and walking into the bathroom. She stripped and climbed into the shower, enjoying the hot water upon her skin. Without realizing it, she had begun humming the eerie little melody the pianist had just played. She could almost imagine the words which accompanied the tune.

It was silent when she finished showering. The apartment, which had been filled with music, was now sad and empty. Christine dressed, choosing a simple orange top to match her blue jeans. Her eyes caught a low-cut, burgundy dress, and she blushed as she fingered the garment.

Unlocking the bedroom door, Christine strode into the hallway, glancing curiously at the closed doors on either side. She turned right, heading through the kitchen, wondering where her eccentric host could be.

Mr. Arnaut was sitting in the living room on the sofa, stroking his cat. His white shirt, untucked and unbuttoned at the collar, complemented brown trousers. His hair, without the gel, curled wildly at the bottom. His mask was simpler than the one he wore at the concert. A glove covered the hand which was not petting the cat.

Christine studied him, wondering whether to speak or wait until he noticed her.

Several seconds ticked by before he broke the silence. "I trust you slept well?" He had not looked at her, yet his ability to sense her presence did not surprise her.

"Did you?"

He regarded her languidly from behind the mask. "I never sleep."

She had expected his eyes to be bloodshot, yet they were the clearest hue of sea-green.

"You mean you're an insomniac?" she asked.

"Insomniac," he echoed thoughtfully, "a modern term..." He released an odd, humorless laugh and turned toward his cat. "The insomniac and the amnesiac. What say you, Ayesha, to this _amusing_ rhyme?"

The cat continued its loud purring. 

Christine gestured awkwardly toward the Bosendorf grand.

"Were you composing earlier this morning? It sounded very beautiful."

"It shall forever remain unfinished," Mr. Arnaut stated, casting a resentful look toward the piano. He stood, ignoring the protest of his cat, and strode toward Christine with alarming rapidity.

She took an involuntary step back.

"Forgive your ungracious host," he muttered, brushing past. "I have forgotten your breakfast."

"Do you have something light?" she squeaked, disturbed by the strange warmth she had felt as he passed. "Perhaps some fruit?"

He opened the refrigerator and retrieved an apple, a lemon, grapes, cherries, strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries.

"Very well. A fruit salad." A knife appeared out of nowhere, and he twirled it in a fluid, effortless motion. "Though you will need some bread and protein to balance your diet."

He placed more food upon the counter, while his left hand twirled the blade around and around like a windmill.

Christine swallowed, nodding. She had never seen someone handle a knife the way he did. So easily, as naturally as he caressed the piano. It sent chills up her spine.

He removed a glove in one graceful motion and sliced several pieces of French bread, warming them in the oven. Retrieving a kettle from the cabinet, he began to make tea. Two eggs were broken and dropped into a pot. While they were sizzling, he rinsed the fruit, slicing the apple with cool, rapid efficiency.

"And you—" Christine stuttered, "will you eat something?"

He continued to dice the apple. "I would rather not."

He mixed the fruit into a bowl, adding a touch of sugar, before squeezing the lemon onto the fruit.

She watched as he removed the eggs and bread, placing them onto a plate. "It would make me more comfortable if you ate with me."

Rather than responding, he asked, "What would you like to drink?" His tone was more tender, deep and lyrical.

She blinked. His voice…

"There are a variety of juices..." he began in that flat tone of voice. Opening the fridge, he bent down. "Orange, grapefruit, apple, blueberry …"

"Blueberry, please." She chose whatever seemed the most unusual, and blueberry was certainly not the normal kind of juice.

Christine's eyes traveled over his body. It was the type of body which moved like a panther, silent, graceful, deadly. What created those bumps on his back? Without realizing it, she crept closer, until she was mere inches behind him. She was too busy observing him, that she did not notice _everything_ in the fridge was new and sealed, save for the packages of fruit he had just opened.

Mr. Arnaut closed the refrigerator, backing into Christine. She yelped, reaching out to steady herself. He whirled around and caught her as she fell, somehow retaining his hold on the container of blueberry juice. Her hands automatically slipped around his waist, under the untucked shirt, skimming over the smooth flesh of his lower back. Were those _scars_ she was feeling?

He froze, and a wave of warmth surged through them both. A thousand questions hit her at once. Quickly, Mr. Arnaut disengaged, adjusting his shirt. As he did so, Christine felt something soft and light tickle the tops of her hands. 

He poured the juice into a glass. The juice spilled upon the counter and a whispered curse escaped his lips, _"Merde."_ He looked at the spill, then at his trembling hands, with a hint of disbelief.

She gave a tiny, nervous laugh. "It's only a little mess." 

He tensed, but did not turn. "This is a mistake."

The words lingered in her mind like a terrible omen. At that moment, her cell phone rang. She could hear it ringing in the distance, all the way from her bedroom, like the hypnotic wail of a baby.

Mr. Arnaut cringed.

"Oh, sorry." She blushed, ashamed at bringing such an ugly sound to a place of beauty. She rushed out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and into the bedroom. The phone continued to flash and ring. "Hello?"

"Chris, are you okay?" It was Ray. He sounded worried and out of breath. "I just got your messages."

"I'm fine," she replied. "Thanks for calling."

"Are you home? Did you find your keys?"

Christine sighed, "No, I'm planning to return today to find the super."

"I can pick you up. Where are you?"

"It's a long story," she began awkwardly. "I'm at Erik Arnaut's apartment. You know, the pianist who performed last night's concert?"

There was a silence, then a sound of disbelief. "What?"

"He has a separate guest room," she explained, somewhat defensively.

"Lou says he's been trying to meet him for _months_."

She chewed her bottom lip. "Well, I sort of forced my way backstage." 

"_You? _Sneaking backstage?"

Christine could tell he was laughing. She blushed furiously. "Yes...well..." 

"Shit, you're not kidding. Lou will want to hear all about it. When should I pick you up?"

"Thanks for offering, Ray, but I don't need a ride. My apartment's in walking distance."

"Oh, okay. I'm just glad you're safe. Let me know when you've gotten back into your place."

"Okay."

"And if you still need a place to stay, you're always welcome to stay with me."

Christine smiled. Something about the way he said it was so warm and endearing. "Thanks so much. I'll call you later."

"You take care, Chris."

"You too." Hanging up the phone, Christine was startled to see Mr. Arnaut standing in the doorway. How long had he been standing there, listening to her conversation?

The masked man stared at her for a moment, before announcing, "Your breakfast is ready, Miss Day." He turned to leave.

_Miss Day. _Why did he insist on these ridiculous formalities? No one went by last names these days, not even when she was introduced to Ray's elderly friends at the movie premiere. Impulsively, she reached out and caught his sleeve. "My name is Christine."

He stilled, watching her hand on his sleeve. 

"Please call me Christine."

Mr. Arnaut did not look at her. He trembled slightly where she held him. "Christine..." Her name, spoken low and painfully, was wrenched from the depths of his being.

The sound of her name lingered deep within her like a forbidden caress. Dare she call him..._Erik? _

He abruptly tore his arm away, the movement causing her to stumble back several steps. Christine stifled a cry, feeling herself shoved by some invisible force. The breath knocked from her, she felt herself bump against the wall. Her eyes squeezed shut, her arms crossed above herself, an instinctive gesture of self-defense. 

But Mr. Arnaut had not moved since he had freed himself from her grip. He stood frozen in the doorway with a look of dismay. Whirling around, he left without a word.


	16. A Female Presence

**Chapter 16: A Female Presence**

Fifteen minutes later, Christine wandered into the kitchen, peering out into the living room. "Mr. Arnaut?"

The window was wide open, the piano lid closed, the sofa cold and empty. The masked man was nowhere in sight.

She turned back into the kitchen, then moved in the opposite direction. Christine peeked into a room she had not seen before, only to find herself facing a glaring cat. Frowning, she stepped inside. It was a large dining room, complete with a long, rectangular table, candlesticks, and a chandelier. Spread upon a white, embroidered table cloth were a dozen little plates containing an assortment of foods. Not only were there fruit, eggs, bread, and yogurt, but also a variety of European pastries and cheeses from which she could choose. Christine gaped at the sight.

A short, unsigned note was left upon the table. It was written in long, curved script that reminded her of highly-stylized calligraphy. _**Your breakfast, Miss Day.**_

'Surely he doesn't expect me to eat all this,' Christine thought, both shocked and delighted by the display. She did not know half the pastries and cheeses and was tempted to try a bite of everything.

The cat scowled the entire time Christine nibbled at her breakfast. The blueberry juice was wonderfully tangy, toying with her taste buds and awakening her senses. The lemon juice and sprinkled sugar added a special aroma to the fruit salad. Her favorite pastry was topped with poppy-seeds, moist and semi-sweet. Everything was exceptionally fresh and rich in natural taste, and Christine found herself savoring every morsel.

Her eyes caught a small, mahogany display case, holding a variety of antique silverware, Russian dolls, and exotic china. The display case sat upon a chest of drawers of similar style, with handmade inlays, carvings, and curved legs. It was clear the two pieces of furniture complemented each other, subtly ornate and exquisitely elegant. Christine walked over, admiring the antiques. She observed the intricate patterns upon the dishes, wondering at their origin. Were they Islamic, Turkish, or Persian in style? Her gaze shifted lower, and she stared thoughtfully at the drawers. Perhaps they held mysterious items of faraway times and places, too?

At the corner of the room, by the open, arched window, was a cushioned wooden rocking chair. Beside the chair lay a little tea table and upon the table was a vase of white roses. It was a beautiful room, with plenty of sunlight, though the light was filtered by translucent white curtains. The few paintings around the room were entirely of nature – flowers, animals, skies, waters, and landscapes. Many were from China, and not a single painting depicted a person, building, or village street.

She wandered over to the rocking chair, admiring the intricate woodwork. She followed the pattern of flowers, which were painted upon the arms of the chair, before moving toward the back. Her fingers absently tracing the wood, she noticed something strange about the cushion which hung upon the back of the rocking chair. Peering closer, she lifted the cushion, realizing it had been placed the wrong way, face-down with the pattern hidden against the wood.

Christine flipped the cushion, smoothing it against the chair to inspect the embroidered design upon the front. She had seen embroideries of alphabets and animals, woven by children of the 19th century, but this one was different. It looked almost...new? The embroidery was an image of music notes, labeled with their corresponding pitch names. The music notes were surrounded by birds, butterflies and flowers. At the top of the embroidery was a dedication, _**Pour mon ange de la musique**_, and at the bottom were the words, _**Votre étudiante dévouée**_.

'_For my angel of music_,' Christine translated, '_Your...student_.'

Possessing only a limited understanding of the language from her high school classes, she did not know the meaning of _dévouée_. Where had Mr. Arnaut acquired such a treasure? No doubt it must be a family inheritance, somehow preserved in near-perfect condition.

Christine returned to the table, cutting off a corner of an unknown cheese and spreading it upon a slice of bread. Chewing, she brought a white napkin to wipe her mouth, when she noticed two tiny letters, barely visible, woven into the corner of the cloth. _**C.D.**_

The letters struck her as oddly intimate, and she felt even more like an intruder invading a personal space. She had not noticed it before, the feminine touch which softened the starkness of the room. Christine examined the beautiful, embroidered table cloth, exquisite in its elegance, surprised to find it bearing the same initials. The whiteness seemed to separate itself from its surroundings, almost ghostly in the dim light. She found herself inspecting the lacy white curtains, the covering upon the tea table. They all possessed the same two letters, so minute, it was a miracle she had even noticed them.

The cloth seemed to call out to her, a terrible cry of despair,_ I love you!_ She shivered, suddenly aware of how cold it had grown as the sun ducked behind a cloud. She thought back on the overly-stocked bedroom, a cornucopia of the finest feminine possessions, and suppressed a perplexing pang of jealousy. Who was _C.D.?_

The chiming of the cuckoo clock interrupted her thoughts and with a start, Christine turned, meeting the frightful hiss of the pearl-white cat. She glared back, annoyed and embarrassed that an animal could so easily unnerve her. She took the plates into the kitchen, unsure of what to do with the remaining food.

As she passed the living room, she peeked in impulsively, at once astonished to see Mr. Arnaut standing by the open window, as still and silent as stone. How long had he been standing there, without sound or movement? His back was facing her, though Christine knew, from the change in the air, that he had sensed her presence.

"Mr. Arnaut," she called softly. Behind all the fear and wariness, she was truly touched. "Thank you for a wonderful breakfast."

He turned and regarded her as one might reflect upon a special and meaningful moment, a souvenir from the realm of sentimental memory. His gaze softened and melted into the shadows. The sea-green of his eyes sparkled with a strange, silvery sheen. It only lasted a second. Mr. Arnaut averted his eyes with the awkwardness of a boy, straightened his shirt, took out his gloves, and slipped them onto his hands.

He turned back toward the window and replied dismissively, "You're welcome."

Christine was no longer afraid, but curious. Why did he just stand there, as though he had nothing better to do, as though he had all the time in the world to gaze at the boring scenes of everyday life? Standing from the doorway, she watched him watch the world. What on earth did he see? How long could he stand there like a statue, doing absolutely nothing? Had he completely forgotten where he was, that he stood in the company of a stranger?

Five minutes passed without either speaking a word.

It was entirely surreal, how comfortable she grew in the intimate silence. She walked next to him, turning to gaze out the window herself. Outside, people were bustling about. Children rode on their scooters, laughing and running down the block. A man with a tall hat whistled at pedestrians, attempting to distribute fliers. A couple held hands, stopping to kiss in the shadows of an awning. The world seemed big and vast, new and fascinating, more alive than ever – a playground, a box of sand in which she could build castles.

"Do you ever dream," she whispered, forgetting herself, forgetting where she was and who she was with, "do you ever dream of greatness, of changing lives, of embarking on projects and adventures?"

As soon as the words escaped her lips, she blushed. She had not meant to speak her thoughts. Nor had she entertained such dreams since she was a child.

There was a faint rustling as he shifted, and she could tell it was from the odd bundles upon his back. His eyes turned toward her, and suddenly, she was the object of a piercing and penetrating gaze.

"What do you dream, Christine?"

"I...I feel..." She bit her lip self-consciously. For a moment, she could imagine herself in his eyes, her soul laid stripped and bare. What was she _doing_, revealing her most secret desires to a stranger! "I...well..."

"You wish to experience the world," he answered for her, entirely without judgment, "to discover yourself, to live life to its fullest without confusion and fear. That is the human way."

"Yes," she blurted, at once intrigued and embarrassed. "I want to go out and explore, to know who I am. I want to discover the key to all these strange mysteries of my life, so I can cease suffering in the dark." Once she had started, she could not stop. "You don't know what I'm talking about. No one knows, but I feel...I've been experiencing such bizarre incidences, I cannot help but feel they are connected...Do I seem crazy to you, Mr. Arnaut? Am I mad?"

He looked at her as though bored, perhaps even sympathetic. "You are passionate."

"Of course, I am passionate. I'm an artist." If he was surprised she was an artist, he gave no sign. She wanted to say more, but stopped short. How could he stand there, so still, so.._.lifeless?_

Inside, buried deep within her being, she knew there had been a time when he had burned as she did now. There had been a time when his soul had been whole, full of life, when he had been able to realize his genius to its maddening potential. There had been a time when his music gave her satisfaction, when it had provided her with the release all mortals craved.

At his most recent concert, however, she had suffered the exquisite beauty of his music, yet found no peace. He had put the audience into a trance, from which they had never properly awoken. His music had been painful because it was starving. It had instilled within her a burning hunger, an _ addiction _ even.

But her mortal mind was not aware of all this. She was too busy wondering how the situation had become so intimate with a man she hardly knew. Why did everything seem so personal with him?

His musical voice meandered into her thoughts, scarcely there, like a brush which left no trace.

"Do not fear your dreams, Christine. Only have the courage to live them." His words, so beautiful in their purity, seemed to evaporate in the light.

Her brow furrowed. 'What a bizarre thing to say.' Yet it did not _feel_ out of place. She gave a small, uncomfortable smile. "That is the second time you called me 'Christine'. "

There was no response. As another silence crept over the apartment, he continued to gaze statue-like out the window. It had been a long time since he had reflected upon his own mortal dreams and desires. What was the fire of passion, but a shell of a memory, abandoned and forgotten upon a shore of tears?

"You know," she began, irked by his reticence, "today is the first time you have ever asked a personal question of me."

He did not move. "I highly respect privacy, Miss Day."

"I can imagine." She reflected upon the elaborate admittance procedures at his concert and Andrew's refusal of the press. "You do realize everyone is curious about you."

His head turned slightly.

"Yet you are curious about no one." The words tumbled from her mouth. "Your utter lack of curiosity is extraordinary."

His long fingers drummed upon the window sill. "There are those who would leave it in the mud with idle gossipers."

"There are those who say curiosity is a sign of a great and vigorous mind."

He asked in a low voice, "What is your point, Miss Day?"

"Oh, I don't know," she laughed, simply relieved to receive a direct response.

"I see no reason to continue this discussion," he muttered. "You must be anxious to return home." He brushed past her, reaching for his cloak.

She _did_ wish to return to her apartment, but she could not help wondering about the white embroidery in the dining room, the subtle, feminine presence.

"You know what else I dream," she blurted breathlessly. "I dream of love. I've never been in love. Have you?"

He abruptly rounded on her, his eyes meeting hers with shocking intensity. His mouth opened, but no words emerged. He looked so dangerously alluring, the green of his eyes glowing in the dim light. It was subtle, that tiny silver spark, but Christine was enthralled. For a moment, they simply stared. Then, the fire faded, and all was sad and dark.

"She is dead," he stated quietly, putting on his cloak, "and we are leaving."

Christine blinked. What had possessed her to be so insensitive?

"I'm sorry." She felt awful. "I didn't mean to offend you."

He strode into the kitchen, systematically bagging the remaining food. "You will take the rest of your breakfast with you."

Her eyes widened. "You do not mean..."

"I have no need of it."

Now, she felt even worse. "I've upset you."

His eyes were suspiciously wet, shining with that bizarre silvery color. "You mustn't think that." He looked at the floor. "No, you mustn't think of me at all."

She gave a nervous laugh, "That's ridiculous."

He packed the last bit of the food into a large bag before she could protest. "Do you have all your things?"

"Let me get my bag from the bedroom." She dashed off, relieved to excuse herself.

The entire apartment looked different now, frozen and creepy in its beauty. How long had Mr. Arnaut kept the apartment like this, everything ready and perfect for his beloved? With a shiver, she wondered if she had slept in _her_ bed, used _her_ things, soiled _her_ napkin. Was she wearing _her_ clothes at this very moment? Spooked and repulsed, Christine quickly grabbed her bag and left the bedroom. She would change these clothes the minute she returned to her apartment.


	17. Departure

**Chapter 17: Departure**

As Mr. Arnaut accompanied her back to her building, Christine felt awkward. Mr. Arnaut moved so quietly beside her, she sneaked glances at him to remind herself of his presence. At times, she felt as though they were floating and imagined their shoes were made of wings. Other times, she felt as though each moment were a lifetime, as long and endless as a spiral. The longer they walked, the subtler her companion's presence grew. It would have been easy for him to slip away, as his presence blended more and more with the trees, the wind, and the sun. 

Christine was relieved when they reached her apartment building. Fortunately, the superintendent answered the door right away and handed her the extra set of keys. Once they reached her apartment, Mr. Arnaut surprised her with the strangest gesture. He lifted a gloved hand to her cheek, and for a moment, Christine thought he was going to touch her. She closed her eyes, feeling only a warm breeze as his hand brushed by her face. There was an awkward pause.

"I should go." His voice was low, barely a whisper.

Christine opened her eyes, too astonished to react. His hands were by his sides as though nothing had happened. She did not know why she felt so sad. She tried to swallow, but found only a lump in her throat. Flustered, Christine turned and unlocked the apartment door.

"Won't you," she stammered, "won't you come inside?"

She still felt terribly uncomfortable in her borrowed clothes, but resisted the temptation to change out of them. Instead, she was suddenly possessed by a mad desire to have Mr. Arnaut stay longer.

His feet moved with a heaviness that belied his reluctance. "As you wish."

She closed the door after him. "Here, let me take your coat."

"I'd rather keep it on." He exited the foyer, turning into the kitchen.

Christine followed, perplexed, watching as he opened _her_ refrigerator and deposited the bag of leftover breakfast inside. She struggled to find something suitable to say, unnerved by the familiarity with which he moved around _her_ apartment.

"Would you like something to drink?" It emerged as a nervous squeak. 

He shook his head, brushing past her.

"What do you think of these paintings?" she blurted.

Most people would have been shocked by the complete absence of blank wall. Mr. Arnaut had shown absolutely no reaction to the plethora of paintings which covered the apartment walls, ceilings, and doors. One moment, Christine found him disturbing. The next, she was seeking his approval.

Even if Christine did not understand the patterns of her behavior, her angel did. He glanced briefly toward her paintings.

"They are true," he stated simply.

"What do you mean?" Her curiosity once again overrode her fear.

"They are honest."

She needed to know, "But are they _good_?"

"You have potential, Miss Day."

Christine's brows furrowed. She had not actually told him those paintings were _hers_, though he did know she was an artist.

Finally, she shrugged, "You did not answer my question." In truth, she wasn't sure what she wanted from him or why she was prolonging his stay.

He frowned and said nothing. 

Christine felt the invisible wall between them, thick and impenetrable. She could sense his reluctance as easily as a change in temperature. She knew he wished to leave, yet he lingered, as though compelled to do so. Likewise, she found the situation immensely unsettling, yet hoped he would stay. It was almost as though some unknown, unfinished business was suspended in the air, and neither could be free until it was completed. But they only talked round and round in circles. Christine continued to contemplate, both bewildered and determined to decipher the nature of her situation.

Unexpectedly, he broke the stalemate. "Do you love painting, Christine?" His question sounded oddly strained.

Her eyes flew uncertainly to his, her mouth opening slightly. She felt that strange pinching sensation, a twisting of the soul, the feeling of _sacrifice_.

"Of course I love painting," she replied automatically, though the words sounded overly bright. "I've begun a great career. I'm one of the lucky few who has a benefactor."

He waited for her to continue. 

"I have my own gallery in Soho. Even my own staff! I don't know how I've managed to be so fortunate..." Even to her own ears, she did not sound convincing. "My paintings have received reviews from the local papers. Hopefully, they will get more attention from the press. I hope to become a great painter."

The more she spoke, the less enthusiastic she felt. It was almost as though she were interviewing for a job which no longer interested her.

Mr. Arnaut was no longer looking at her.

An awful silence settled between them.

"Alright," she admitted, terribly ashamed, "for the past few months, I've been questioning my dream of being a great painter. After I heard you play, I realized my passion for music was more intense and perhaps greater than my love for painting. All of this has come as a shock."

"Ah," he sighed unhappily, "you should have never heard me play." His shoulders had slumped, as though she had confirmed what he had feared all along.

"I don't understand it. I haven't been feeling the same. Maybe it's just a phase."

He said nothing, though there was something resigned in his expression. "I believe I have overstayed my visit."

Christine blinked, dismayed by his sudden announcement. "Well," she clung to her dignity, "maybe we'll see each other again."

He walked toward the door. "Farewell, Miss Day." There it was again, that silvery shine in his eyes. She had never seen anything so beautiful or so terrible. "I urge you to forget all of this. Return to your paintings. Your career is going well, am I correct? Music is much more...difficult." Then, he opened the door and was gone. The door shut with a quiet click.

Christine stood frozen by the door, before walking over and locking it. His presence had been something like smoke, which left no trace upon its disappearance. Their acquaintance had ended so...anticlimactically. Christine felt her expectations crushed. He had simply left. Just like that!

She tried to swallow the horrible lump of disappointment in her throat. Moving into her bedroom, she changed into a comfortable, oversize T-shirt. It was odd, the way she had begun to feel ever since hearing him play. The intensity of her emotions both frightened and depressed her. As she wandered toward her studio in a futile attempt to inspire herself to paint, she found herself humming instead. Why had she never noticed before how lonely and silent her apartment was?

It wasn't until much later when she realized she had forgotten to return Mr. Arnaut's keys.


	18. Waiting for Mr Arnaut

**Chapter 18: Waiting for Mr. Arnaut**

That evening, Christine walked slowly to Mr. Arnaut's apartment building. It had rained all afternoon, and the cars whooshed past without minding the puddles. The lights upon the pavement ran like paint upon black canvas. Christine dragged her feet, the slosh of the cars like waves against a seashore.

Christine had no trouble recognizing the old, stone building in which she had stayed only the night before. She hesitated for a split second before walking inside. The elevator took less than a minute to arrive, and she rode it up to the 17th floor. It was unusual for Christine to visit someone without calling first, but she did not have Mr. Arnaut's phone number. Stepping out of the elevators, Christine slowly walked toward Mr. Arnaut's apartment. She took a deep breath, then rapped firmly upon the door.

There was no response.

Knocking again, she called out, "Mr. Arnaut?"

Several minutes ticked by as Christine debated with herself as to what she should do. After a few more minutes, Christine took out the key and twisted it in the lock. The door opened, and the dark, silent apartment stared back at her. Several sheets of music lay scattered and crumpled upon the floor. Everything was still and frozen as before, save for the gigantic ghostly curtains which swayed gently in the wind.

Despite the fact that Mr. Arnaut had a cat, he had left the windows wide open.

Something white shifted in the darkness, and two glowing eyes glared at her. Ayesha bared her fangs and hissed.

Startled, Christine stumbled backward. Seeing the disagreeable expression upon the feline's face, however, awoke a pang of annoyance.

"Oh shut up!" Her exclamation took them both completely by surprise. For a moment, they simply glared at each other. "I'm going in whether _you_ like it or not."

Mustering her courage, Christine stepped further into the apartment and slipped past the cat.

Ayesha watched on suspiciously.

"I'm just waiting until he returns," Christine said defensively.

Several minutes ticked by, and Christine began to grow nervous. If anything, the apartment was creepier than before. She needed to give herself something to do. Bending down by the piano, she began to pick up the fallen pages of music. They were songs of some sort, but she could barely read the messy, French lyrics. Among the pages of music, she found a crumpled letter, which she unfolded and read under the dim light.

**Dear Sir or Madam:**

**Your assistant would not divulge your name or address, though agreed, after much effort on my part, to give you this message. It is my deepest hope that this letter reaches you. Please accept my sincerest apologies for any inconvenience I have caused.**

**I was present at the auction in which your assistant purchased the only surviving, though incomplete, manuscript of Le Fantôme's 1871 opera _Le Triomphe de Don Juan._ The brilliance of this work is mentioned in many primary documents, almost always in connection with the madness of the composer. I need not bore you with the plethora of descriptions supplied by journals, newspapers, and first-person accounts that sprung forth with astonishing abundance following the fateful premiere of _Le Triomphe_. Although many musicologists dismiss responses to _Le Triomphe_ as mere sensationalism, I believe there is much more to that opera than the scandal attached to it. **

**As you are aware, Le Fantôme and his opera remain a great mystery. It is known that only portions of the opera had survived the fire. I believe, however, that analysis of the score would greatly enrich the field of musicology. I therefore implore you for permission to access the manuscript. It would be a shame for such a treasure to continue to remain hidden. **

**Thank you for your time and consideration. I would be happy to address any questions and concerns you might have, and look forward to hearing from you.**

**Sincerely,**

**Professor Nathan Ernestino**

Christine regarded the letter with narrowed eyes. Why did _Le Triomphe de Don Juan_ sound so familiar? Thinking back, she remembered a conversation between Lou Jensen and Ray one night. Lou had been complaining about the way wealthy families wasted their money on parties. Ray had been offended by Lou's criticism of the rich, arguing that the upper class had every right to spend their money as they pleased. Lou had referred to a party he'd worked at downtown, in which the host had spent $12 million on a curtain.

"Why, the curtain cost more than a Beethoven manuscript!" Lou had exclaimed. "And to think people were complaining about the $3 million paid for Le Fantôme's _Le Triomphe de Don Juan_! Does it really matter that _Le Triomphe _is relatively unknown outside musicologists' circles? I'd say the buyer was smart to have taken such extreme measures to remain anonymous. This society holds such a shithole of values. It's okay to spend $12 million on a curtain, but you're chewed out if you pay $3 million on a 130-year-old manuscript."

Christine carefully replaced the letter, scattering the pages of music back onto the floor. If she were to tidy up for Mr. Arnaut, he would surely know she had seen the letter. Somehow, that did not sit well with Christine. She would rather keep the discovery to herself.

The apartment remained eerily silent. Christine glanced at her watch. It was 10:30 PM. That wasn't very late for Christine, but she didn't know how long it would take for Mr. Arnaut to return home. The longer she stayed, the more she began to dread meeting him.

At that moment, Ayesha began to meow from another room. It was a series of howls, which made Christine's hair stand on end. Was the cat in some sort of trouble?

Christine forced herself to her feet. Automatically, she moved toward the sound, peeking around the corner to gaze down the hallway. Spotting the white tail sticking out from one of the doors, Christine edged closer. The white tail disappeared, and Christine hesitated at the doorway. The door was slightly open, though it was clearly a private room.

On the other side of the door, the cat had stopped howling, but Christine could hear the animal's wild scampering.

Christine peeked through the crack, but could only see darkness. Curiosity quickly overrode her fear. She placed a hand upon the door and pushed.

The door opened easily, though inside, it was nearly pitch black. It seemed like a storage room of sorts, with sheets of paper stacked haphazardly in piles. Christine searched for a light switch, but there were none. As far as she could tell, this room had no windows. She shivered, overcome by an overwhelming despair, a sense of loss and shame. Much to Christine's horror, Ayesha was busy chasing a mouse. The mouse scuttled behind a pile of old papers, which toppled over as Ayesha dove after the rodent.

Christine bent down to pick up the papers, noticing with astonishment that they were entirely in French. As she straightened the pile of papers, her eyes were drawn to the words in faded, stylized print on the top sheet:

**Christine de Chagny  
Hôpital de Pitié-Salpêtrière, 1882 à 1883  
Asylum de Bicêtre, 1883 à 1887**

A shiver ran through her, and her fingers released the paper as though burnt. Clutching her hands to her ears, Christine fled the room, running down the hallway, out the apartment, and onto the street. Outside, it was pouring. The rain beat relentlessly upon her, soaking her to the bone, yet all she could think of was the image which had flashed through her mind while she'd clutched the yellow piece of paper. It was a sheet-covered corpse, propped stiffly against the wall. A little voice had flown straight through her mind, piercing her heart like an arrow:

_Madame, would you please identify the body?  
Madame? Madame?_

Rushing into her apartment, she bolted the door behind her. She would not sleep well that night.


	19. Painter's Block

**Chapter 19: Painter's Block**

Three days had passed since Christine had visited Mr. Arnaut's apartment. Her nights were filled with dreams, and the lack of sleep was apparent in the dark circles under her eyes. She hadn't been able to paint at all, and the block had left her depressed and irritable.

Christine was sleeping when the phone rang. She groaned and rolled onto her side, her fingers fumbling for the phone. It was already 1 PM.

"'Lo?"

Ray's voice emerged from the other end. "Chris, where are you?"

"Wha—?" she mumbled. "Oh, I'm home."

"I thought you were going call me when you returned to your apartment."

Christine blinked a few times. She'd been dreaming just before the phone rang. All she could remember was a few fuzzy images. Shaking off the grogginess, Christine attempted to concentrate on Ray's words.

"Why haven't you called me by now?"

"I—" she stammered. There was something in his tone that made her uncomfortable. "I've been busy. Guess I forgot...I'm sorry."

Christine felt bad. She should have remembered to call him.

"Oh." He sounded disappointed. There was a pause. "What have you been doing?"

"I've been trying to paint," she heard herself respond.

"You don't sound very enthusiastic," Ray commented.

She released an exasperated breath. "I haven't been able to paint at all. This has never happened to me before."

"Maybe you need a break," he suggested. When he spoke next, his tone was light and friendly. More like the Ray she knew. "Hey, why don't you join Lou and I? We're at the Italian place around the corner. C'mon...my treat!"

She sat up, her brows furrowing. She was a mess. "Right..now?"

"Yeah, we're having lunch. I haven't seen you in ages."

"We saw each other last weekend," she blurted.

Ray was silent for a moment. "Listen, we'll wait for you," he announced suddenly. "It would be good for you to get out of that apartment."

Perhaps Ray was right. She'd been cooped up inside for the past few days. She rubbed her eyes, surprised at the crusty residue which she felt. Had she been _crying_ during the night?

"Alright," she sighed.

"Great! See you soon." He hung up.

Christine crawled out of bed, shuffled into the bathroom, and began to shower. Exactly what had she been dreaming last night? Fragmented images filled her mind – an ornate opera house, a dressing room with a large mirror, a stone angel upon a rooftop. It was as though she had entered a whole new world...

Ten minutes later, she stepped out of the shower, wrapping a large towel around herself. She looked into the mirror, noting that her eyes still possessed a strange, haunted look. Moving aimlessly into her bedroom, she stiffened as she noticed a single, thornless white rose placed upon her pillow. How had it gotten there? Christine looked around uneasily. She had not received a gift from her angel in a while, and never had he left gifts while she was home. Placing the rose into a vase with water, Christine slowly got dressed and walked outside.

Her painter's block was probably a temporary phase...she hoped.


	20. Music Lessons?

**Chapter 20: Music Lessons?**

"So, you're saying you're more obsessed with music than with painting?" Ray asked incredulously. His arm was draped casually over Christine's shoulders.

Christine continued to pick at her food. They were dining at the small, family-run Italian place only a block away from her apartment. The food was delicious, but something about Ray was making her uncomfortable. Outside, it was deceptively sunny, as though nature were making a mockery of her depressive state.

Lou shrugged, "What's wrong with that?"

Christine released a breath, at once grateful for the musician's presence.

Ray attempted to explain, "Just that...well, she's got a career going, and—"

Lou snorted, "Oh, stop being an asshole."

Ray's expression was that of a gaping fish, but Christine didn't have the heart to laugh.

On the other hand, Lou was openly grinning. "It's not the end of the world if _someone's_ interested in classical music," he laughed. Turning toward Christine, he asked, "What type of instrument interests you?"

"Well...I used to sing in a chorus when I was a kid," she replied. "I really love opera."

"Why don't you take some voice lessons?" Lou suggested. "It's probably easiest to begin with singing."

Ray shook his head, "Wouldn't it be less expensive to join a community choir?" He gave Christine a friendly squeeze.

Christine realized Ray was still under the impression she was a starving artist, despite having a benefactor to support her paintings. She had told no one about her angel, or the fact that her bills were somehow being paid. Everyone would think she were crazy if she tried to explain.

She turned toward Lou, "Do you recommend any good voice teachers?"

"I could arrange a meeting with my colleague Carla Rivers," Lou replied. "She's the head of the Vocal Arts Department at Juilliard. I don't think she'll take you as a student. But she might be able to recommend another teacher."

Christine considered Lou's offer. She had heard of the soprano Carla Rivers, and the possibility of talking with the diva was both thrilling and daunting. "I'll think about it."

"You can't be serious." Ray removed his arm. "A complete beginner approaching the legendary Carla Rivers?"

"Why not?" Lou countered. "It's more bizarre to meet the reclusive Arnaut..." He lowered his voice, "Off the record, Arnaut is a far better musician than Carla. She just cares more about the politics and publicity." His eyes twinkling, Lou turned toward Christine, "Speaking of which, when do I get to meet the man?"

Christine looked up from her plate. "I don't think he's the social type."

"In that case," Lou stared hard at Christine, "what's his interest in _you?_"

Christine could feel Ray's eyes upon her, and she felt a tightness in her throat. The question disturbed her, though she didn't want to admit it.

"So, you really think Ms. Rivers would meet me?" Christine asked, changing the subject.

"She owes me a favor or two," Lou replied. "Just tell me when."

"I just don't understand the purpose of music lessons," Ray spoke up. "Chris already has so much to do without the additional distraction. Now she should push her painting career."

"_She _is right here," Christine pointed out, "and I'm _not_ giving up painting, Ray."

"You need to stay focused on your art," Ray argued.

"Since when did you care so much about my painting?" Christine asked.

"You're acting distant," Ray observed. "Like you're somewhere else. And now this sudden desire to take music lessons. If something's wrong, Chris..."

She laughed uneasily, "That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard all day."

There was another awkward pause.

Lou shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, I'll leave you two to sort this out."

"Wait," Christine blurted, "I remember you mentioning a three million dollar manuscript..."

Ray frowned, but did not comment.

"Are you talking about Le Fântome's _La Triomphe_?" Lou asked. "The auction is old news..."

"But what is the story behind the music?" she wondered, a strange glint in her eyes.

Lou raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"I hadn't heard of Le Fântome or _La Triomphe _before the auction, but I'd be interested in learning more," Christine replied.

Lou thoughtfully scratched his chin. "Well, I don't know much, but a friend of mine has made recent discoveries since the last of the De Chagny's died."

Ray's eyebrows furrowed. "The De Chagny's? That name sounds familiar."

"Why yes," Lou nodded, "they were one of the most respected and wealthy families in France. For the longest time, they owned the Paris Opera House. This year, the last of the family line, Marie de Chagny, died unexpectedly of a heart attack. Many things were discovered upon her death, including _La Triomphe_, antiques, letters, newspaper clippings, and other documents...which had, until then, been kept secret."

Christine leaned forward, intrigued. "What happened to those items?"

Lou replied, "It is rumored that many of them were transferred to the same person who purchased _La Triomphe_. Speaking of which, my friend attempted to contact the new owner to access _La Triomphe_, but never received a response..."

"I thought the new owner was anonymous," Ray interjected.

"Well, Nate – that's my friend – was present at the auction where the manuscript was sold. He begged the owner's assistant to deliver a letter to her employer. Given the lack of response, the new owner seems just as intent as the De Chagny's to preserve the family's secrets. Or perhaps the assistant failed to deliver the letter. Whatever the case, it's disappointing..."

"What are some of the discoveries your friend has made?" Christine could barely contain her excitement.

"That's really for Nate to say," Lou responded, eyeing her curiously. "Unfortunately, he's not one to divulge information while working on a project."

Although Ray watched Christine with increasing perplexity, he remained silent.

Lou took the opportunity to glance at his watch. "Well, I've gotta go. You two behave now." He rose from the chair, winking at Christine, "And don't forget to let me know if you want that meeting with Carla Rivers."

After paying for his meal, Lou strolled out of the restaurant.


	21. A Confession

_thanx to Skoteinos Metamfiezomai for previewing this chapter!_

* * *

**Chapter 21: A Confession**

Once they were alone, Ray gestured toward Christine's plate. "You've hardly eaten anything."

"I'm not hungry," Christine murmured absently. She continued to stare thoughtfully out the window.

Ray spoke softly, "You're not even looking at me." His fingers twisted a napkin, tearing it into tiny shreds.

Christine blinked, turning toward Ray. "I'm sorry." She felt horrible. "So sorry..." She meant it, and yet the apology lingered in the air.

Ray looked away, hurt. Pedestrians hurried past the window. A mother pushed a baby carriage, chatting with an older woman. A child skipped by. Across the street, a dark figure stood motionless against a neon orange wall. Ray frowned, leaning forward to get a closer look.

"What are they doing to that poor woman?" Christine asked suddenly. "Why are they dragging her into that carriage?"

Ray gave a start. "What?"

"Oh god!" Her eyes widened. "Why does she keep screaming that she killed him?"

Christine didn't realize she was speaking aloud. Nor did she notice she had placed her hands over her ears.

"What woman, Chris?" Ray grew alarmed.

Christine's eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking from the sides. "Make it stop!"

"Christine!" Ray cupped her chin between his hands, turning her toward him.

Her hands dropped from her ears. She stared at Ray in puzzlement. "Did you say something?" Her tone was completely normal.

Ray gaped, before quickly closing his mouth. "I said," he stated slowly, "that I didn't quite see what you were looking at."

"What?" She looked at her hands, which were wet from tears.

Ray continued to stare at Christine as though she had sprung a second head. "Chris, have you seen a doctor lately?"

Her expression switched from perplexity to horror. Christine felt her cheeks go red. "I-" she stammered, "I..."

Ray took her hand, which was trembling.

She could feel a terrible pressure building behind her eyes.

"Hey," Ray coaxed with an uneasy smile, "it's okay."

Christine could not stop shaking. "I don't know what's happening to me!"

Ray squeezed her hand.

"I can't sleep," she whispered. "I only dream..."

"I'm here, Chris..."

She blurted, "I wish life would just be normal."

Ray opened his mouth to speak, but Christine abruptly pulled her hand from his.

She looked down.

Ray's brows furrowed. "Chris..."

"I can't talk about this." Her voice was laced with panic.

"You _can_," he said, watching her with a serious expression. "You can tell me anything."

She still wouldn't meet his gaze.

He remained silent, not trusting himself to speak.

"I want to go home now."

"Listen," Ray tried not to sound desperate, "I'm here for you. I...care for you...deeply. I absolutely adore you...I...I'm in love you..."

Her eyes lifted, and in that moment, their gazes locked.

There was an awkward silence.

Ray looked anywhere but at her, "Forget I ever said it."

She continued to stare.

"It was stupid. I shouldn't have said it." He ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. "You said you wanted to go home?" He suddenly stood, pushing back his chair. The chair screeched against the floor.

Christine winced.

"Just...don't block me out, okay?"

She nodded, slowly.

"I'll walk you home."

"I'm sorry," she apologized for the third time during their meeting.

Ray looked away, his expression strained.

"I just don't know who I am anymore."

At that point, the waiter approached their table, interrupting them. "Would you like anything else?"

"No," they spoke at once.

Ray paid for the meal, leaving a generous tip, but the walk back to Christine's apartment was done in tense silence.


	22. Terrible News

**Chapter 22: Terrible News**

Christine had been sitting quietly in her apartment ever since her rendez-vous with Ray and Lou. Despite Ray's reservations, the idea of singing was refreshing, not to mention exciting. It was disturbing how – in only a few days – her entire perspective toward painting, Ray, and even her own sanity, had changed drastically.

Almost of its own accord, her mind drifted toward the strange, masked man who had only recently entered her life. It seemed Erik Arnaut had paid a staggering amount for the De Chagny inheritance, which included an incomplete manuscript by the composer Le Fântome. It also seemed that Arnaut paid a hefty price to keep people's mouths shut. Reflecting upon her stay at Mr. Arnaut's apartment, she wondered which of those items belonged to the De Chagny family and which belonged to Arnaut. Most perplexing of all was the interest of the intensely-private, eccentric musician in the personal possessions of an old, wealthy family.

Unexpectedly, the phone rang a few minutes before midnight.

Numbly, Christine watched the cell phone blink on and off. She did not recognize the number. It took a few minutes for her to reach over and pick up the phone.

"Hello?" Even to her own ears, her voice sounded exhausted.

"Chrissy, it's Anna."

Anna was an elderly lady who was close friends with her foster mother and lived in Boston near the Allisons. She had always been kind, but distant, toward Christine.

"Anna," Christine forced some cheerfulness into her voice, "what a pleasant surprise."

"I'm sorry to call so late," Anna began.

Christine could hear the seriousness in the woman's tone and felt a sick dread fill her stomach.

She struggled to keep her voice steady, "Is everything okay?"

The woman took a sharp intake of breath. "Eleanor and Jonathan had a bad car accident this evening."

Christine did not speak for a long moment. Her foster parents...in a car accident?

This could not be happening.

"They're at the hospital." Anna's voice trembled. "Neither has awoken yet..."

Christine felt only a lingering numbness, coupled with a dull sense of disbelief.

"I'm coming," Christine heard herself say. "I'm coming this very moment."

"It's so late," Anna interjected. "How are you getting here? Your parents wouldn't want you running about at this hour. For heaven's sake, you'll get here around four in the morning..."

Christine frantically forced herself to think. "Which hospital are they in?"

"Beth Israel," Anna replied tiredly. She gave Christine the room number and details.

"Thank you," Christine whispered. "Thank you for staying with them."

"Of course, dear." Anna's voice broke. "We'll be waiting for you."

Christine hung up. In a daze, she grabbed her pocketbook and left the apartment.

Outside, it was pouring, and Christine ignored the rain as she stepped out onto the street, her arm lifting automatically to hail a taxi. Several cabs raced by, splashing dirty water upon her jeans. A black car appeared, and Christine stepped back in surprise as it screeched to a stop.

A window rolled down, and a gloved hand beckoned her forward. Christine could barely make out a familiar white mask.

"Get in." Mr. Arnaut's tone was curt.

What was he doing here?

Honking, several cars rushed past, dangerously close.

Mr. Arnaut shouted, "Christine! Inside! _Now!"_

The urgency in his voice spurred her into action. Christine opened the door and climbed inside, realizing for the first time she was soaking wet. Shivering uncontrollably, she was dripping all over the seat.

Mr. Arnaut sat stiffly in the backseat opposite her. Turning toward the chauffeur, he ordered, "Jose, turn up the heat, please."

It grew warmer within seconds.

"What were you doing, standing in the middle of the street?" Mr. Arnaut demanded harshly.

Jolted from her thoughts, Christine stammered, "I-I was hailing a cab. I've got to go to Port Authority."

His eyes lifted in her direction. "Port Authority, why?"

"To catch the bus to Boston. My foster parents live there. They had a bad car accident." Her voice trembled. "They're in the hospital."

"We are going to Boston, too," Mr. Arnaut stated.

Christine was too upset to catch the driver's expression of surprise.

Mr. Arnaut asked, "Which hospital are your parents in?"

"Beth Israel," Christine replied.

"Jose, we are to arrive in Boston as soon as possible." Mr. Arnaut's voice left no room for dispute. "Once there, I will direct you to the location of that Hospital."

The driver nodded, and the car accelerated with frightening speed.

The ride continued in silence, except for Christine's quiet sniffing.

Without a word, Mr. Arnaut handed her a handkerchief.

Christine awkwardly fingered the handkerchief. She did not notice the tiny, stylized C.D. embroidered into a corner.

"You know where Beth Israel is located?" she asked.

He nodded stiffly.

"Is it...Are the doctors good there?"

"I'm not the one to ask, my dear," he replied shortly.

Christine frowned. "What do you mean?"

"For as long as I remember, I have always detested doctors."

Christine didn't know what to say.

A few moments of silence passed before he spoke again, his tone more gentle. "I am sorry about your foster parents, Christine."

She took a deep breath. "They're all I have. I don't even know who my real parents are."

Mr. Arnaut's voice was barely audible over the rain. "Sometimes, it's better not to know."

"Do you really believe that?" she asked.

He studied her from behind the mask, as though deciding whether or not to respond.

"My foster parents have been awfully kind," Christine broke the silence. "But I never felt I belonged. As part of their family, I mean."

"I've never belonged," he replied. "One gets used to it."

"I wish I belonged...at least to someone," she murmured.

Mr. Arnaut glanced sharply in her direction. "I'm sure you will have plenty of opportunities," he muttered.

Christine's eyes widened in shock. "What?"

His gaze averted, he murmured, "You have all the qualities which would attract a man to marriage."

She frowned, scrutinizing him. How had they gotten onto such a topic?

The visible half of his face had flushed with color, his eyes turning a startling green.

"Well, there is someone who seems to be interested..." she confessed, her thoughts turning toward Ray.

He still wouldn't meet her gaze. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

The words tumbled out before she could catch them. "Why don't I believe you? Why do I feel as though you know everything about me?"

Was it only her imagination or did he transform back into stone right before her very eyes?

His eyes flickered involuntarily in her direction. "Miss Day..."

"Christine!" she shouted. "These formalities are ridiculous! We're stuck with each other for at least three hours. I'll be damned if I'm going to address you as 'Mr. Arnaut' every time."

He looked down, his features now stricken with pain, then out the window.

Outside, the wind began to howl.

"It will take longer than three hours," he said finally.

Christine did not have the energy to argue. "I don't want to think about what might happen to my parents between now and the time we arrive."

"It will not be too late," Mr. Arnaut assured her. "They will still be waiting for you."

"What are you, a fortune teller _and_ a psychic?" She shot daggers at him.

He ignored her.

She glanced restlessly at her watch. "How long do you think it will take?"

"A little over four hours," he murmured. "Though we are moving quickly, you are quite safe. Jose is an excellent driver."

They continued to cruise along the highway, ignoring the shrieking of the wind.

"A cellist-friend of mine is interested in meeting you," she mentioned casually. "He's the one who got me the tickets for your Carnegie concert last week."

He glared at her from narrowed slits. "I'm not interested."

"You don't see many people, do you?" Christine asked softly. "So, why do you bother with me?"

His voice was very low. "Would you rather I leave you be?"

She hesitated, startled by the sudden stirring of emotion as she imagined a life without him.

He laughed quietly.

"I'm just not used to people doing things for me," she hastened to explain. "Everyone has their price. It's just bizarre, you know?"

His eyes burrowed into hers. "I expect nothing from anyone."

As they locked gazes, Christine found herself staring. The green of his eyes had deepened. She loved the way his eyes seemed to hold a thousand secrets. Once again, she felt the urge to paint him, the same desire she had felt upon seeing him for the first time. His eyes alone possessed such haunting beauty.

"Nothing?" Her mouth felt dry. "Even if I promise..."

"Promise!" he exclaimed. His laughter sent chills up her spine. "Don't be ridiculous."

She licked her lips. "I could promise you something in return..."

He stiffened, realizing she was in earnest.

"Surely there is something I could give you?" she persisted.

"Leave it alone." The warning in his tone was unmistakable.

Without realizing it, she was moving toward him, closing the distance between them.

He stared at her, tense like a caged animal.

Her hand reached out to touch his. "What is it that you want?" she asked gently.

What he did next was completely unexpected. He shoved her back, his face furiously close to hers, his gloved fingers digging mercilessly into her shoulders. She felt herself squished uncomfortably into the seat.

His voice hissed into her ear, "Keep your distance!"

She cowered, suddenly remembering the image of his blood-caked fingernails clutching a sinister rope.

His fingers tightened painfully into her flesh. "Make no promises, you_ foolish girl!_ Not to me, not ever again!"

Her panicked mind barely registered what he was saying. She reacted purely on instinct.

"Erik..." she whimpered, "you're...you're hurting me."

His eyes widening, he immediately released her. He dropped his hands, moved as far away from her as possible, and looked down. His shoulders slumped. He said nothing. He did not even try to hide his misery.

Christine felt horrible. She turned toward the window and blinked back tears. His name upon her lips – it had tasted so bitter, so sad! Her mind wrestled with the mystery of it all, yet all she could perceive were the waves of sorrow coming from her companion.


	23. His Immortal Beloved

_ My heartfelt thanks to you -- dear readers, reviewers, and betas -- for bearing with the sporadic updates. Special thanks to **iamphantomgirl** (whose story 'Leitmotif' I'm sure most of you already know) for listing my story under her 'recommended stories' webpage. I hope you enjoy this chapter. _

* * *

**Chapter 23: His Immortal Beloved**

An hour passed without either speaking a word. Outside, the rain poured relentlessly. It was as though they were forging through a beast of a waterfall – and blindly, too, despite the frantic motions of the windshield wipers. Although it was warm inside the car, Christine felt cold and alone in the unbearable silence. She barely noticed the lingering ache in her shoulders and neck where Mr. Arnaut had held her. All she could think of were the Allisons, her poor foster parents lying injured and unconscious.

Would she lose the only family she had known?

Eventually, her distress surrendered to an overwhelming exhaustion. The monotonous drone of rain and the steady hum of the engine lulled her to sleep. She lost all sense of time, of place, of self. Her spirit drifted from the lonely, silent vehicle, whisked away by a stream of dark and fragmented memories.

_All around, the wind howled relentlessly. Christine stood trembling, tightening the shawl about her body. She looked up, meeting the gaze of a man with striking resemblance to Ray._

_"What's wrong, Christine?" the man asked softly. "Why have you brought us here?"_

_She realized how desperately she was clasping his hands, shaking off yet another wave of nauseating anxiety. Her eyes took in the deceptive, twinkling stars. The moon watched her as though frowning. She could see a myriad of candlelight in the houses below. They were standing upon a rooftop. She tugged at his hands._

_Without hesitation, he gathered her in his arms._

_"Raoul," she heard herself sigh, "I'm afraid."_

_He tightened his hold and murmured endearments into her hair. "Don't cry, little Lotte, I'm here..."_

_Automatically, she pulled the little, white handkerchief from her pocket, dabbing at her eyes, before staring at the cloth in horror. Oh god, such beautiful silk – it had been given to her by a madman!_

_Christine blinked, and suddenly, she was no longer snuggled in Raoul's arms. Instead, she stood behind a statue of an angel, watching herself and Raoul embrace upon the rooftop. She saw herself draw Raoul close and whisper into his ear. She could not hear what was said._

_It had begun to rain rose petals. The petals swirled around her like silent tears. It took her a moment to realize the raining roses had begun to wilt and bleed. Horrified, Christine stepped back, attempting to wipe the blood from her hands. Her feet, stumbling upon her skirt, accidentally crushed a petal._

_Suddenly, the statue in front of her grew alive, releasing a choked sob. It stretched its wings wide, about to fly away._

_Christine's eyes widened as she recognized those silvery-white feathers. They were the same as the feather left by her angel so very long ago...When she attempted to speak, her voice stuck in her throat. She reached forward, clawing at a wing. No, no, no!_

_Oblivious, the couple upon the rooftop began to kiss._

Christine's slumber was interrupted by the sound of Jose's voice.

"Please, sir, may I turn on the radio?"

Christine awoke with a start. She realized she was twisting something in her hand, with the desperation of a death grip. It was the white handkerchief Mr. Arnaut had given her earlier during the ride. Images of her dream flashed before her in chaotic, incomprehensible fashion.

"The lady is sleeping," she heard Mr. Arnaut reply, "and you know how I detest background music." Mr. Arnaut's normally melodic voice was flat, and he barely spoke above a whisper.

"I'm sorry, but I'm having trouble staying awake," the chauffeur replied.

"Do what you must," Mr. Arnaut replied.

"Thank you, sir."

Suddenly, the car was flooded with a relentless drumbeat. Everyone cringed. Jose quickly turned the volume down, switching to the classical music station.

From half-closed lids, Christine studied her masked companion. He looked so annoyed, his hands curled into fists, his eyes glowing faintly as he glared at Jose. After his disturbing display of violence earlier during the ride, she had little doubt he was a dangerous man. It unnerved her that he could move so rapidly, with the silent grace of a cat.

Soft, chamber music filled the air.

"Beethoven, isn't it?" she wondered groggily. Her voice, heavy with fatigue, sounded deep and husky.

No doubt he heard the change in her voice, for he stiffened.

Their gazes collided. The fierceness in his eyes dissipated into smoke, surrendering to an unfathomable expression, though equally intense. Christine suddenly felt naked, lost within the sea-green depths. She blushed, clearing her throat.

"Yes," he replied curtly.

As the melancholy strings continued to play, Christine found herself relaxing.

Mr. Arnaut, however, remained tense.

"I apologize for disturbing your sleep," he said.

"Oh," she replied awkwardly, "don't worry about it." Unconsciously, she began to toy with the handkerchief.

Mr. Arnaut's eyes lowered to the cloth in her hands.

Christine followed his gaze, realizing how nervously she was wringing the silk. Embarrassed, she stopped.

"I should return this to you," she began tentatively, holding out the cloth, "though it is somewhat used."

He refused, "You have more need of it than I."

Christine let her hand drop, somehow grateful to have something of his.

"I am sorry about before," she gestured vaguely. "I did not mean to anger you."

"What I did," he murmured, "was unforgivable."

Christine watched the secret play of shadows upon the stubborn frown of his lips.

"It doesn't hurt anymore," she lied.

To her surprise, he reached toward her. "Let me take a look."

"Pardon?"

"Your shoulders," he gestured disgustedly, "I injured them, didn't I? Probably your neck as well."

"Well, I—" she blushed, then looked away uncomfortably.

"Come here."

She moved toward him, as though compelled by an outside force.

He removed his gloves and hesitantly pushed back her hair. She remained motionless as his fingers lingered gently upon the flesh of her shoulders, before sweeping up to her neck. There was a strange surge of warmth, relaxing her entire being. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, a sigh escaping her lips. She could feel his fingers trembling as he touched her. The air by her cheek warmed with his breath, and she could tell his lips were very close. Was he going to...kiss her? Or was he singing so softly, no human ears could detect his song? The moment seemed to stretch, and she felt as though her very spirit were slowly and tenderly embraced. His breath upon her cheek grew as faint as a feather, and despite the lightness of his touch, her soul could sense the weight of eternal love. There was a pause, as he hesitated, and her body tensed at his sudden doubt. The cool air rushed against her as he released his grip. Resuming his position at the far end of the seat, he replaced his gloves as though nothing had happened.

Disoriented, Christine opened eyes, her hand reaching back to touch her neck and shoulders. Although the pain had completely vanished, the memory of his touch remained.

"What—" she faltered, "how did you do that?"

Mr. Arnaut shrugged noncommittally, "An ancient healing technique, that's all."

The strings took up the melody again, and Christine found her attention returning to the music. She could not make sense of what happened only moments before.

"That Beethoven sounds so familiar," she mused, attempting to shake off the rest of her inexplicable drowsiness, "though I don't remember where I've heard it."

"You could have heard it anywhere." His tone was dismissive. "Perhaps we should change the channel."

"Oh no," she replied quickly, "I'm enjoying it immensely."

He remained silent.

Christine turned to gaze out the window, where the highway seemed streaked with paint.

_A favorite of mine, Beethoven's 'Ghost' Trio. It received its nickname from the mysterious mood of the second movement.  
_  
"What did you say?" she asked, astonished.

With the smallest of motions, the mask tilted toward her. "I did not say anything."

"You said it was the 'Ghost' Trio."

He turned toward her, his eyes narrowing. "You are mistaken, Miss Day. I have said nothing."

"It's not the 'Ghost', then? One of your favorites?" she persisted.

He stiffened, his hands rolling into fists. "It is the piece you name," he admitted. "I no longer care for the work."

"Why?"

"It does not mean the same thing now as it once did," he stated dismissively. "I have outgrown music...as one might grow weary of an old toy."

The hollowness of his tone irked Christine. "What a horrible thing to say!" she exclaimed. "And you call yourself a musician."

"I consider myself nothing," he stated simply. "Everything is duty to me now. I tire of it all."

She could barely make out the outline of Mr. Arnaut's angular frame underneath the folds of his cloak. The sinews and muscles of his body were tense with subtle strength. The smooth flesh of his face and neck seemed whiter than ever, as though made of the moonlight itself.

"What did music mean to you before?" she asked quietly.

He looked at her, as though deciding whether to respond. "Once upon a time," he began, "it was my _raison-d'être_. My reason to live." He spoke softly, without emotion. "Then, it became a curse. Not all of us are blessed with a fairy tale existence. I will not repeat what once was."

"And what is that?" she asked, confused by his enigmatic statements.

He watched her regretfully, then looked away.

Christine looked down, noticing for the first time the stylized **C.D.** embroidered into the handkerchief she still held in her hands. A surge of jealousy ran through her. She thought of the unnamed woman who bore the same initials as herself, the phantom lady whose dresses he still kept in the guest room, the one who was dead.

How could one compete with a ghost?

"Did you sacrifice everything for her?" she blurted.

His eyes glanced toward her in mild surprise. "Yes." His tone was somewhat gentler when he admitted, "I still do."

Christine's brow crinkled. "So then, she's alive?"

"Not really."

"What do you mean?" Christine asked, confused. "There is only life or..." She couldn't bring herself to mention death.

There was a long moment of silence. "I told you she is dead."

"How long has it been since she...was alive?" Christine's voice trailed awkwardly. Dimly, she wondered about the mask. Had he been in an accident in which he not only lost his beloved, but injured his face as well?

He looked away. "Long enough. I do not wish to speak of it."

"You need to move on," she continued kindly. "I'm sure she wouldn't have wanted you to suffer like this."

"Spare me your _pity_, " he snorted. "It's absurd."

"I'm compassionate," she argued, dismayed by his reaction.

He laughed.

"What's so funny?" she snapped.

He fell silent, though his gaze remained fixed upon her.

Christine couldn't tell which she preferred – his bizarre laughter or his eerie stare.

"Always curious," he murmured thoughtfully, his eyes glittering dangerously behind the mask. "She was like that, too, forever asking questions. A most _inquisitive_ child."

Christine watched him, intrigued. "You knew each other as children?"

He continued to watch her.

"You were childhood sweethearts?"

He laughed. If possible, the sound was even colder than before.

"Dear girl, she _betrayed_ me for her childhood sweetheart. But she was right to do it, so I let her go. I have never regretted my decision."

Christine wondered what he meant. "How could she betray you?" She was at once horrified and fascinated.

"The first time, or the second time?" he asked with strange patience, like teacher to student. "The second time was far worse, though I can understand why she did it. I loved her all the same."

"Both." She tried to hide her jealousy toward the woman who, in life and death, commanded such devotion.

"Perhaps you'll hear such bedtime stories at another time," he hissed mockingly. "Waste no more thought or curiosity about me. _You_ are a far more worthy subject. The entire world offers itself to _you_."

"Me?" Christine could not help the blush that stained her cheeks as he stared unabashedly at her. That penetrating gaze seemed to have hardened. If possible, it was even more piercing than before.

As though suddenly aware of what he was doing, Mr. Arnaut wrenched his gaze away. "Ah," he gestured toward the window, "we have finally arrived in Massachusetts. The Turnpike is quite fast, and we should be there in no more than forty-five minutes."

Christine remained silent, baffled at how her companion could so rapidly change mood. She sighed, once again losing herself to the viscous maze of unanswered questions, which so resembled the endless meanderings of the highway.


	24. The Allisons

**Chapter 24: The Allisons  
**

By the time the car pulled up to Beth Israel Hospital, Christine's anxiety about the Allisons had returned in full force. She had telephoned Anna only fifteen minutes before and was relieved to hear that the woman had convinced the staff to allow Christine to stay overnight with her foster parents.

"Thanks so much for the ride," she said, turning toward Mr. Arnaut. "I appreciate it."

She couldn't tell the man's expression in the dark, but he acknowledged her with a curt nod of the head.

Clasping the car door handle, she swung the door open with more force than intended. She was about to shut the door when she heard the soft rumble of his voice.

"Christine..." His tone was uncharacteristically hesitant.

Surprised, she turned to regard the masked man. "Yes?"

"Should your parents awaken," his eyes were sorrowful behind the mask, "you should tell them everything you'd ever want to say."

Christine's eyes furrowed at the strange statement.

But he had already turned away. "Goodnight, Miss Day."

Nodding, Christine closed the car door, then headed straight for the hospital lobby. Although Mr. Arnaut had stated earlier in the evening that the Allisons would still be alive by the time she reached the hospital, his last words alarmed her. She was so preoccupied that she nearly ran into Anna as the older woman stood up and approached her.

"Anna," Christine exclaimed, "thank god!"

"Chrissy," Anna sighed, embracing the younger woman tightly. "I was so worried about you, especially when you mentioned you'd been picked up by some man."

"He's not 'some man,' " Christine frowned, oddly defensive of her masked friend. "Erik Arnaut is a pianist. Actually, he's quite famous."

"Fame doesn't make a person decent," Anna stated tiredly. "You know Eleanor would say the same."

At the mention of her foster mother's name, Christine fell silent.

"How are they doing?" she asked quietly.

"The same," Anna replied. "Neither has awoken from their coma. At the very least, I convinced the doctor to put them in the same room."

Christine turned away, still clinging to the hope that any moment now, she would awaken from this terrible nightmare.

The security guards acknowledged Anna as the two women moved past, heading toward the elevators. The elevator ride up to the ninth floor was done in exhausted silence. As they walked down the empty corridor toward the Allisons' room, Christine could not help but notice the sleeping shapes in the darkened rooms of other patients.

Regarding Anna warmly, Christine suggested, "Why don't you go home and rest? I can look after Mom and Dad."

They were standing outside the Allisons' room.

Anna's eyes filled with tears. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay?"

"You just look exhausted," Christine sighed, speaking with a calmness she did not feel.

Anna nodded, obviously drained, "I'll return in the morning."

Christine hugged Anna before watching the older woman depart.

Taking a deep breath, Christine entered the room of her foster parents.

Although she had heard of the seriousness of their condition, Christine was not prepared for the sight which greeted her eyes. The Allisons lay inert upon the hospital beds, covered in bandages, and attached to tubes and machines. Their skin was extremely pale, and their heads had been shaved. The steady beeping of the machine rang loudly in the deadly silence. It was dark in the room – the lights were off to save electricity, and the curtains were draped over the windows. For a long moment, Christine stood as still as possible, attempting to control her trembling, as the depressive, lonely reality began to overwhelm her.

She had never felt more alone than she did in that moment, in the company of her loved ones, lying there as still as death.

Slowly, she approached them, moving quietly by their bedside. Gripping the arm of a nearby chair, Christine sank into the seat. She reached out to grasp the hand of her foster mother, then lightly touched her foster father's cheek. If anyone were to have seen her, Christine's face was as pale as a ghost. She stared unblinkingly ahead, her gaze unfocused, as though she did not wish to see the truth for what it was.

She reflected upon those fleeting moments from her forgotten childhood – the smile upon her parents' faces when Christine had presented them a painting, the slapping sound of her father's slippers as he paced late at night. She could even imagine the faint scent of her mother's perfume upon the sterile hospital pillow. Despite this terrible emptiness, Christine attempted to retain some degree of dignity. She sat motionless for a long time, struggling with the fact that in a span of less than a day, her life had spiraled downward and uncontrollably to darkness.

It was a very long time before she succumbed to an exhausted, restless sleep.


	25. The Return of An Angel

**Chapter 25: The Return of An Angel**

Slumped in the chair by her foster mother's bed, Christine began to dream. She was not aware of the window flying open, the curtains billowing inward, nor of the breeze which invited itself inside. A shadow stood silently by the window, then closed the door to the hallway, before approaching. Christine did not feel the darkness embrace her – coaxing and rocking her like a babe to a gentle lullaby. She did not stir as the angelic voice began comforting her – the same voice which, unknown to her, had been comforting and teaching her during her sleep for the past year.

"Courage, my dear," came an unearthly whisper. "Do not fear for the Allisons, and do not fear for yourself."

Christine's lips parted on their own accord. "Why?" she whispered in her sleep. "Why must this happen?"

"Do you remember Ecclesiastes?" the voice asked. "'For everything there is a season...a time for every matter under heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die...a time to kill, and a time to heal...' "

Silent tears began to fall from Christine's closed lids. Even then, she did not wake.

"'A time to weep, and a time to laugh,' " he continued quietly. " 'A time to mourn, and a time to dance.' "

Soothed by the hypnotic voice, Christine relaxed despite her tears.

"The time for weeping shall pass. Though I could not work miracles for your parents, you may awaken with an understanding and readiness for the future. Remember these words when you awaken: this time, too, shall pass..."

"This time, too, shall pass..." Christine echoed tonelessly.

Her angel was here, and she could sense the compassion in his words. How she loved the comfort of his divine voice!

"Tonight, I have come to deliver you a message," he continued. "Your foster parents will wake in the morning. For a few moments, you will have the chance to tell them everything you have ever wished to say. This is the most I can do for you, Christine."

The air warmed as he drew near and took her within his embrace. Christine instinctively leaned into his warmth.

"When you are free of me once again," he murmured, "you will realize how inconsequential life and death are in the eternal world. All moments diminish in value; one loses a sense of time because the number of moments is infinite." His voice softened as he added, "Though you make me remember, at times, what it was like to be human, how precious every moment is, and why some moments are more special than others."

Feeling his hands upon her shoulders and the tickle of his breath against her ear, she sighed, enjoying this strange, beautiful dream.

Then, as clear as the ringing of a bell, it hit her:

_This is no dream._

Sluggishly, she focused upon the shrieking of her mind.

_ Wake up, your angel is here! Or would you rather sleep away the opportunity as you have done every night during the past year?_

Christine drifted back to the present, returning to her bizarre and nightmarish reality, growing more and more aware of the steady beeping of heart monitors. She lay perfectly still, keeping her eyes shut, wondering whether she was awake or asleep. But there was no denying the familiarity of the warmth which hovered nearby. It was the same presence she had felt at her apartment so many months ago.

"There is another matter we need to address," an angelic voice spoke, interrupting her thoughts. "Would you like to discuss your painter's block with me?"

His voice was the most exquisite sound she had ever heard. In her amazement, she forgot to breathe.

"Christine?" There was a note of alarm in his voice.

She would do nothing to betray the fact she was awake, paralyzed with fear that her angel would abandon her once again.

"Yes," she mumbled, struggling to keep her voice sluggish, as she imagined it would be in sleep. Christine forced her breathing to become as steady and even as possible. But she had no control over the rapid thumping of her heart.

He sighed, and she marveled at how musical it sounded...and how sad. "Calm yourself, beloved."

Her heart skipped a beat at his endearment. She nearly gasped as she felt warm, gloved fingers lightly brush her cheek.

"You are upset," he stated quietly.

She forced herself to relax, savoring his touch.

"I hope...it is not the past which haunts you..."

Christine remained silent, not trusting herself to speak, bewildered by his cryptic words.

After a moment, he spoke again. "I am well aware of your ambivalence toward painting."

Christine realized he was waiting for her to speak. Choosing her words and tone carefully, she confessed, "I no longer love painting."

He was silent.

She ventured uncertainly, "It is music which I love now."

There was a long pause. "Are you so...sure?" His voice had become distant and somewhat hesitant, though it was still ethereal and gentle.

"Aren't you the one who left me CDs and concert tickets, so that I would develop a love for music?" she inquired, unable to contain her confusion.

As though caught off-guard, he replied quickly, "I had not expected you would wish to become a musician."

"You can blame Erik Arnaut," she blurted before she could stop herself. "It was his music which awoke this longing within me."

"That is why I never left you tickets to his concerts," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "When I saw you there, you surprised me. I had not felt surprise in over a hundred years..."

"So, you were human once?" she dared to ask.

There was a shocked silence before he laughed, and it sounded of low, brittle bells. "You do flatter me. Human _indeed_."

His voice trailed off, and Christine could feel only a lingering sadness.

When he spoke next, his voice was very soft. "This is not our normal interaction. Tonight, you seem more...bold, shall we say?"

Christine forced herself to relax further into the seat, as though in deep sleep.

He continued after a moment, "I do not believe you should give up painting. You are blocked because you have not released fanciful expectations of your role as an artist. You are expecting too much. Adapt a humbler approach, and your muse shall return. No one likes a tyrant; least of all art. You shall remember this when you awaken."

"Yes," she murmured, though she felt as though her heart were breaking.

"Leave music. Forget Arnaut's concert..."

"But I love music," she protested, though her voice sounded weak to her own ears.

"Do not argue with me, Christine." His voice was tinged with regret. "Music is not for you. It is but a lost art..."

How could her angel not believe in her? How could he deny her the thing she desired the most? Weren't angels supposed to inspire faith? Why then, did she receive only doubt?

Without meaning to, tears began to spill from beneath closed lids as she realized the full import of his words. Indeed, it felt as though he had snuffed out the divine spark of a dream.

Immediately, he was by her side. "Oh Christine," he murmured, "you mustn't cry. If only you had never been at that concert, everything would have continued as planned. Does life as a painter seem so terrible? It could be very fulfilling. It would make you happy. I would make sure of that."

She did not respond, overwhelmed by the proximity of his presence.

"Perhaps you are remembering, my dear," he whispered. "You shall not know it, but you _do_ have the ears of a great musician. You _do_ possess a voice that can bring the angels to their knees."

Christine grew quiet at his last words. Her, bringing angels to their knees? Could she bring _this_ angel to his knees?

He continued gently, "But music is not for you in this lifetime, my love. It is too risky. Music belongs in the shadows, in the darkness, in the past...Think of music as a passing nostalgia, a temporary fancy. You must let go of it. You must let go...as I once let go of you. My love, you mustn't ask this of your angel." His voice began to shake. "No, not another word of this cursed music..."

To her dismay, he was weeping, though it was so subtle, she only knew by the trembling in the air. He made no sound.

"Oh angel..." Christine squinted in the darkness but could not see him. It was so very dark now. The door to the room had been shut, the curtains drawn closed, forcing out all light. "Angel, I'm sorry...so sorry..."

She gulped, realizing her mistake too late. She should not have stirred in her 'sleep'. She should not have named him. She should not have attempted to place a comforting hand upon his shoulder, only to grasp...air.

There was an eerie stillness in the air, and the room had become very cold. God, she could _feel_ him scrutinizing her.

After the long, terrible moment, he spoke, and his voice seemed to emerge from all directions. "How long have you been awake?" His voice was ice, much different than the one she had heard only moments before and somehow in its formality, it seemed familiar.


	26. Someone to Watch Over Me

**Chapter 26: Someone to Watch Over Me**

Christine felt her hopes sink, and panic move in.

"I..." she felt herself grow tongue-tied. "Well..."

Where was he? She was losing all sense of her angel's presence, as though he were fading, cloaking himself within with the surroundings.

It was only when he began to move away that he betrayed his position.

"Wait!" Desperately, she reached out, her fingers clutching something warm and soft. It trembled beneath her touch.

There was a sharp intake of breath.

Her hand traced the outline of…feathers? She touched the feathers, marveling at the firmness beneath. Her fingers moved across, encountering cloth, and behind the fabric, muscles tensed under her questing fingertips. Her hand lingered on the warm, rapid heartbeat, before traveling upward, skimming over the exposed neck, moving toward the face…

In a sudden whirl of motion, Christine felt someone grab her wrists and push her back against the chair. Her frantic breathing mingled with another's.

Then, he detached himself completely from her grip, moving a good distance away.

"Please," she stammered, "please don't...don't go..."

He made no response.

Even though her spirit knew, Christine needed confirmation. "Angel? You really are an angel...?"

Again, he remained silent.

"Your wings," she stammered, "I felt your wings."

She could scarcely believe what her fingers remembered. Surely, this couldn't be real. Not at a place like this – a pitch black hospital room, in the company of her comatose parents?

When he spoke, there was a hollowness in his tone. "I stood too close."

She squinted into the darkness. "What do you want from me?"

He replied, exasperated, as though the words were torn from his lips. "Your happiness, Christine. Only that."

She hesitated, surprised. She reflected upon the miraculous changes in her life so many months ago and the gifts her angel had left around her apartment.

"Why reveal your existence now? Why not months ago, when I tried so hard to contact you?"

"I speak now, child, only because you have already discovered me."

Her brows furrowed, as she frowned at his response. "You wouldn't have spoken to me, otherwise?"

"That is correct." He added very softly, "Though you should not have awoken. You had never done so before."

"Before?" she echoed. "How long have you been visiting me?"

"Ever since I was returned to the world, I have been teaching you during your sleep..."

Her eyes widened. "Why didn't you speak with me directly?"

"I am not one of you," came the celestial voice. "Not before, certainly not now..."

"Is it to preserve some secret," she asked, "that angels truly exist?"

"No," he replied, "but it is highly uncustomary for angels to contact their ward..."

"Ward, what do you mean by that?"

"Only a responsibility of sorts," came the cautious response.

"I am your responsibility?"

He remained silent at first, as though uncertain as to how to reply.

Christine considered for a moment, before her mouth opened in astonishment. "Does that mean you are my guardian...as in my _guardian_ angel?"

The question hung in the air like a bell which would not stop ringing.

"Yes," he admitted finally, his tone strained. "I am bound to you."

If Christine had possessed greater awareness, she would have caught the hidden meaning of his words:_ It is my penance. I have no choice._

"Well," she stuttered awkwardly, "I'm very grateful to you, I really am."

The absolute absurdity of her situation continued to plague her. Was this yet another bout of madness?

The silence persisted.

"Are you still there?" she asked, foolishly.

"I am here, Christine." It was barely audible.

"May I confide in you?"

"Of course." She could still hear the stiffness in his voice.

"Do you have a name, something I may call you?"

He shifted uneasily in the darkness. " 'Angel' suffices." The title was spoken with distaste.

It was then when she noticed the beautiful, fractured shade by the window, how it seemed to tremble. She was certain her intruder lurked there, yet his voice had emerged from the opposite corner of the room. Standing slowly, she cautiously approached.

_"Don't!"_

"Please?" she implored. "May I see you, just so I know I am not going mad?"

"No! Never!" His voice shook with some unnameable emotion. "But close your eyes...I shall offer you something else, which shall be proof enough of my existence."

Christine did as he asked. She felt a stirring in the air, an increase in temperature, then a wonderful warmth filled her entire being.

"What is that?" she gasped.

"It is love, the divine force of life," whispered the voice of her angel, very close to her ear. "A pure, cleansing energy. Very different from the _impure_, passionate love found among mortals." He spoke of mortal love with a hint of loathing.

She shivered, growing very aware of his presence, as though he stood directly behind her.

"Thank you," she murmured back, both nervous and flushed, then ashamed for having such _sinful_ thoughts about her angel.

But he was so close, close enough to touch...

"You are to remember this divine force," he continued to whisper. "Seek it in all you do. Recognize it within the people you meet. When you feel love, you will know you are on the right path."

"Would you," Christine began, attempting to focus through the whirlpool of her emotions, "could you do something for my parents?" She gestured helplessly toward the Allisons.

He sighed, "I am sorry, my child. My miracles are reserved for you only. I cannot save them."

She again felt the heaviness of sorrow.

"I can only give you one precious moment, and one moment only, to bid them farewell."

Swifly, he moved away, the warmth replaced by a coolness in the air.

_"Oh!"_ she cried, feeling her heart twist. "Will you be with me then, angel? Will you be with me when they go?"

"I am with you always." His voice was fainter now, as though carried by the wind.

She trembled, touched by his powerful words. "You will never leave me?"

He gave a little sigh, and it sounded like a sunset would, if it were to shudder.

"Do not think of this anymore, Christine. Rest now, and awaken refreshed. Perhaps you will remember this only as a dream..."

Before she could respond, he began to sing, and her eyelids began to grow heavy. The music filled her entire being. Christine was too caught up in the pleasure and sound to resist. She was asleep by the time she collapsed into her angel's waiting arms.


	27. Les Adieux

**Chapter 27: Les Adieux**

The next morning, Christine was surprised to find both her parents awake, their eyes brighter than ever, though they were too weak to speak. The love and pride in their gaze, however, conveyed a meaning far beyond mere speech. Despite her earlier intentions to communicate to the Allisons how much she loved them, Christine found herself at a loss for words. Which words could express the divine love her angel had given her, only the night before? Blinking away tears, she quietly took her mother and father's hands into her own.

Many years later, Christine would reflect upon the Allisons' deaths, and remember how surreal the experience had been. The Allisons' passing had not been a dramatic event, but rather simple, even peaceful. She had been able to feel the exact moment their souls had begun to fade. It was as though a dampness in the air, which had gone previously unnoticed, began to evaporate little by little. At the same time, the first rays of sunlight had appeared in the horizon. All around, Christine could hear birds singing. It seemed, as she felt her parents' hands grow slack in her own, that the song of the birds was joined by the soft singing of another:

_Requiem aeternam dona defunctis, Domine.  
Et lux perpetua luceat eis.  
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine  
Et lux perpetua eis..._

It was only when her song had ended that she recognized the voice as her own.

The moment was broken when the heart monitors flat-lined, and the nurses rushed in. The doctor arrived only seconds later, yelling orders.

Christine watched, horrified, as they began attempting to revive her parents, whose bodies trembled and shuddered at the brutal procedures. She wanted to scream, but found herself rooted to the spot.

At the same time, someone grabbed her arm and spun her around. Christine found herself staring into the strange, silver-rimmed eyes of Mr. Arnaut. There was barely enough time for her to register surprise at his appearance, for he spoke with quiet resignation.

"Come, Christine." 

Dazed and disoriented, she followed the masked man out of the room. They walked down the corridor, into the elevators, and out the lobby.

It wasn't until they were outside the hospital when Christine found her voice again.

"How did you find me? Where are you taking me?" she asked, confusion evident in her tone. "Why don't you let me stay with my parents?"

He had taken her hand within his gloved one, slowly guiding her through the parking lot.

"They'll be alright, won't they?" Christine's eyes filled with a wild hope.

"Some sights are unbearable," Mr. Arnaut replied simply.

"What do you mean? Will they be okay?"

Mr. Arnaut stopped, staring deeply into her eyes. "Death might be glorified, but rarely is it glorious. They would not wish your last memory of them to be so ugly."

Christine's worst fears were confirmed, yet she had known all along. "I didn't even tell them how much I loved them," she whispered brokenly.

"But you did, Christine." His voice was gentle, though still distant and formal in tone. "Did you not sing to them?"

"You heard," she murmured.

"I stood outside, in the hallway," he explained. He added softly, "It was the best gift you could have offered."

Silently, she began to sob, hugging herself tightly.

"Here." He took off his cloak and set it gently about her shoulders.

As he began to remove his hands from her shoulders, Christine caught them.

He froze.

"Hold me," she sniffed, drawing his arms around her. "Please, I can't bear it."

She felt him stiffen against her back, before awkwardly embracing her.

"Christine," he whispered, equally broken.

Christine did not know how long she stood, hugging this strange man, relaxing into his tentative embrace. But in that moment, she felt safer than she ever had in a very long time. It was as though this man, though try as he might to hide it, excuded a quiet strength and protectiveness. He truly did care for her, though it did not occur to Christine that her angel might appear as any man...just as it did not occur to her past self, over a hundred years ago, that a man might pretend to be an angel. Had Christine been able to linger longer in his embrace, the extent to which Erik Arnaut loved her would have been increasingly apparent. But such a revelation was not to be, for they were interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone.

Mr. Arnaut released her, adopting an air of abrupt professionalism.

Numbly, Christine fumbled for her cell phone, picking up on the third ring.

"Miss Day?"

"Yes?" she asked, tiredly.

"It's Dr. Evans." There was a moment of silence, as though he were considering how to tell her the grave news. "I regret to inform you that the Allisons passed away only five minutes ago. We tried everything. I'm sorry."

Despite her best attempts, Christine could not prevent the shaking from her voice. "I understand, Doctor," she managed.

"We'll need you to return and fill out some paperwork," he continued. "There is also a lady named Anna who is asking for you."

"Okay," she whispered.

"Again, we are sorry for your loss."

It took a few moments for Christine to find her voice. "Bye now." Her hand trembled as she hung up the phone. She didn't want to hear the doctor's sympathies, even though she knew it was beyond his control.

"They're gone," she murmured, staring at nothing in particular. "They're really gone."

Mr. Arnaut made no move to touch her, his eyes following a movement in the sky imperceptible to mortal eyes.

"Yes," he confirmed after a moment, "they have passed on."


	28. New Beginnings

**Chapter 28: New Beginnings**

Over the next few months, Christine was buried in paperwork, funeral arrangements, and legal matters of inheritance. She barely had a moment to herself to grieve, for the changes in her life were overwhelming. Upon hearing of the Allisons' passing and despite the regular payment of rent, the apartment management once again tried to evict her. The letters demanding that she show up in court, however, mysteriously ceased – as though the management had suddenly decided to abandon the case.

Ray called several times a week, asking if he could be of assistance. It grew increasingly evident, however, that he simply did not know what to do. Ever since his declaration of love, their conversations were awkward. At times, Ray was overly helpful. Other times, he was unreliable, creating expectations, then cancelling at the last minute. Christine understood that Ray had a tendency to be overly optimistic, committing to too many things at once, then realizing he could not realistically complete all his tasks on time. He was now involved in directing an action film and had been rather distracted during their meetings.

Erik Arnaut, too, had disappointed her. She had not seen the man since the Allisons' funeral four months ago. He had disappeared as strangely as he had appeared. Like a wind which had entered her home, long enough to warm the air, before exiting as rapidly as it had arrived.

Anna, on the other hand, was as steady as a rock. The older woman remained in contact with Christine, assisting with phone calls and paperwork in Massachusetts. However, their discussions were strictly limited to business and legal matters.

It was her angel who comforted Christine during the lonely hours, maintained the apartment, made sure Christine remembered to eat, cradled her in his invisible embrace, wiped away her tears, and sang her to sleep. Every night, he visited her. He helped her through the procedures and paperwork, discussing not only practical matters, but any subject under the moon.

Christine would awaken in the morning to the scent of freshly-picked flowers, steaming soup, warmed croissants, or hot chocolate. Her angel always made certain Christine had tomorrow to look forward to, for there was a different surprise by her bedside each morning.

As the months flew by, Christine's eyes began to shine once more, the redness of her lips returned, and her fleeting, but sincere, smiles appeared more and more frequently. Little by little, Christine began painting again. No longer was Christine haunted by torturous visions, by the forboding threat of madness. It was as though her affliction had entirely disappeared.

Although her angel did not mention it, Christine suspected he was the patron and benefactor of her paintings. What else could her benefactor's initial "A." stand for, if not for "Angel"? Furthermore, her mysterious benefactor seemed to know precisely the right moment to resume his requests for commissions.

As summer passed, her Soho gallery grew busier than ever. She received a steady stream of commissions from wealthy customers. She found herself involved in several high-profile showings of her gallery. Christine had become so busy, she was painting day and night. She had become so busy, she had little time to reflect upon the strange, nightmarish events leading up to the Allisons' passing.

Chrisitne had become so busy, she had forgotten all about music.


	29. The Professor

**Chapter 29: The Professor  
**

It was on one August day that Christine's Soho gallery was bustling with activity. People stood in circles, delicately tasting their wine and cheese. Cameras flashed occasionally as the photo-journalists did their best to remain discreet.

From the balcony, Christine observed the scene below. Earlier that day, she had attempted to mingle with the guests, but preferred to retreat to her office upstairs. Her angel had been right. The art show was proving to be tremendously successful. However, Christine had underestimated the demands of her social obligations and was tempted to cancel the rest of her interviews.

"That one, there," an accented voice caught her attention, "the one called _Sunset_. How much is it?"

_Sunset_ – the painting of the silhouetted man against a blazing sky – was a work she had put aside for over a year. She had finally completed it only one week before the showing. _Sunset_ was her best work to date, the mood, balance, and colors exactly the way she wished.

"That one is not for sale," her assistant, Emily, informed the man.

Emily was a taciturn, middle-aged woman who worked as part of the staff hired by Christine's benefactor. Christine had pestered the older woman upon numerous occasions, trying to weed out information about her benefactor. However, it became clear that Emily knew nothing of A., except that he paid her salary.

"No?" the stranger asked. "It's extremely evocative."

Emily nodded, "This painting has received powerful responses from everyone."

The man smiled and his voice lowered. Christine strained to hear his words over the conversations of the other patrons.

"You do realize it's not really a sunset, but a fire?" the man was asking.

Emily raised an eyebrow. "A fire, sir?"

The stranger reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. "Look here." He straighted the paper, pointing to a spot upon the page. "The similarities between this photo and that painting are uncanny, no?"

Christine struggled to see, but the paper was turned away from her.

"That's an interesting connection," Emily commented, her tone betraying her skepticism. "But I assure you, Miss Day paints entirely from her imagination."

"Ah," the man smiled, his accent growing more pronounced as he spoke, "please don't misunderstand me. The painting is not an exact replica of this photo. That silhouette, for instance, appears nowhere in the photo and is most fascinating. I have seen other of Day's paintings, and many of them portray shadows. She has a deep obsession with phantoms, perhaps?"

Emily regarded the man with cool distaste. "Obsession is a strong word, sir."

Christine felt a shiver run down her spine, taken aback by the stranger's pointed question.

"That bit of white...it's almost as though the figure has something on his face," the man continued to observe.

Christine blinked, struck by the vision of a white mask.

A mask? Was she somehow painting Mr. Arnaut?

Dismissing the idea as quickly as it had occurred, Christine found herself thinking of the man. The last she had heard of him, he was on tour in Europe, Africa, and Asia. Now, as she thought of Mr. Arnaut, she remembered the way he trembled as he held her, the gentleness in his eyes as he watched her when he thought she wasn't looking. She remembered every detail of his beautiful, peculiar lips, the subtle strength of his hands, the wildness of his hair when it was not gelled back. Most of all, she remembered music, the alluring, subtle chords as he pressed upon the keys.

_His music..._

Gasping, Christine clutched her heart, overcome with indescribable emotion. A sadness – a longing for that which was not there and which may never be – stirred within, followed by the dull throbbing of a forgotten pain.

The stranger's voice brought her back to the present, the gallery, the murmuring crowd below.

"Not only do shadows reoccur...that girl, for instance," the stranger gestured toward another painting, "she reappears in a number of paintings as well. She is more abstract in this one, though her coloring and shape match the others..."

It was the girl from the cathedral, the one who wept at the altar. The painting used to hang in the apartment before Christine became spooked by the child's tears.

Christine found herself stepping down the stairs, cautiously moving closer, drawn like a moth to the fire.

"I'm sure one can find hidden motifs in the works of all artists," Emily commented dryly.

Neither noticed Christine as she stood nearby, leaning against the wall.

"The work of this artist has caught my attention," the stranger nodded, "especially in regard to my work as a musicologist."

Christine was unable to contain her curiosity any longer. With a click of her heels, she closed the distance between herself and the stranger, the question tumbling from her lips, "And what exactly are you researching?"

The man turned toward her in surprise.

"I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. I hope you don't mind," Christine added hastily.

He studied her from beneath his glasses, his tone somewhat more reserved. "Not at all," he replied politely.

Christine gestured toward the painting. "You mentioned something about _Sunset_ being a fire?"

The stranger's brows lifted. "Ah yes," he smiled, "take a look at this photo." He handed her the paper, allowing her to study it.

It was a photo of a burning building, the flames shooting dramatically from the windows as people scrambled to escape. The likeness to her painting was eerie, though the silhouetted figure in her painting was missing.

"The similarities between this photo and that painting are incredible. Walking into this gallery is like stepping into the world of the composer I am studying," he mused.

She looked up, "And which composer is that?"

"Le Fântome," the man replied. "Perhaps you've heard of him. The manuscript of his opera _La Triomphe de Don Juan _sold for a hefty sum last year."

Christine's eyes widened in surprise. "Yes, I'm aware of that." She turned, regarding him steadily, "Who was Le Fântome, exactly?"

If he was surprised by her interest, he gave no sign.

"Unfortunately, I cannot divulge any details," he stated with a shrug. "You see, my research is for a book I'll be publishing. Until it's out, my research will remain secret."

Christine wasn't about to give up, not when she was so close. She decided to approach the subject from a different angle.

"So," she began, "why are you interested in these paintings?"

"I would love to include them in my book," the stranger answered. "They would be perfect for this biography."

Her eyes sparkled. "Really?"

"Yes, I would only need permission from the artist...which reminds me..." he trailed off, fumbling for his wallet and extracting a business card. Turning toward Emily, he asked, "Would you please inform Ms. Day of my interest?"

The older woman looked startled, unable to refuse the business card suddenly placed into her hands.

Christine raised an eyebrow at the exchange, before demanding the stranger's attention, "What is your name?"

His brows furrowed at her interruption, but he answered nonetheless. "Nathan Ernestino. I teach at Juilliard and Columbia University."

Christine recognized his name immediately, barely containing her excitement. He was Lou's colleague, the professor who had written Mr. Arnaut to request access to _La Triomphe._

She held out a hand, smiling as he accepted the handshake. "I'm Christine Day, though it seems my assistant has already received your business card."

"You must forgive me," the professor gave an apologetic smile. "I had mistaken you for a student."

"Many do," she responded quietly, "though in many ways, I still have much to learn."

"Well, you obviously are very gifted," Professor Ernestino complimented, regarding her warmly. "Does the talent run in the family?"

At the mention of her family, Christine's smile faltered. "I'm adopted," she replied, quickly recovering. "And now, Mr. Ernestino, you were speaking of possibly including my paintings in your book?"

"They complement my research perfectly," the professor spoke passionately. "They capture the very essence I am looking for. Does this interest you?"

Christine struggled to hide her growing excitement.

"A fascinating proposition," Christine replied steadily, "though I would need to know more about your project...I promise you, I will not tell anyone about your research."

The professor nodded, "That's a reasonable request. Why don't you come by my office Monday afternoon? We could discuss this further then."

She studied him from behind her lashes. "That sounds wonderful."

"Oh, I almost forgot." He ripped a paper from a notepad, jotting down his phone number and handing it to her. "I'll have to sign you into Juilliard. The security is very strict. So, you should wait for me in the Lobby. But make sure to call me at this number. Then, I'll go downstairs and let you in."

She smiled, "I'm looking forward to this."

Professor Ernestino regarded her amiably. "It's a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Day."

"Likewise," she nodded.

With a tip of the hat, he exited the gallery.

It was a few minutes later when Christine realized she was holding not one, but two, pieces of paper in her hand.

While they'd been talking, she had crumpled the photo of the burning building in her fist.


	30. A Bite of an Apple?

**Chapter 30: A Bite of an Apple?**

Back in her apartment, Christine methodically taped together the photo. She was relieved the paper was a photocopy, for she would not be able to return the photo in such a state. From its scratchy appearance, Christine guessed the photo was very old.

The act itself had disturbed her. She had literally been forced to pry open her fingers to free the torn pieces of paper from them. Even after she had released the paper, her hands would not stop trembling.

Emily had grown alarmed, leading Christine to a nearby bench, then handing her a glass of water. It had taken several minutes before the shaking had finally subsided. But Christine had insisted on keeping the photo.

Now, as she gazed at the photo, it seemed to return her scrutiny with an innocent stare of its own. The photo seemed so benign that Christine almost questioned her memory of the earlier incident. If Emily had not reacted with such panic in her eyes, Christine would have dismissed the event altogether. But Emily's alarm only confirmed the intensity of Christine's physical response to the sight of the photo...which now seemed as harmless as any other piece of paper.

A soft voice emerged behind her ear. "What are you looking at?"

Christine jumped, dropping the paper upon the floor. It landed face-down.

"I did not mean to frighten you."

She could almost feel the warmth of his breath against her flesh. _Almost_.

"Angel," she sighed, "I noticed something today. Not only am I painting the same subjects over and over again, but my style became slightly more detailed after my painter's block."

He was silent, as though considering.

"Even in my _Sunset_ painting," she continued, "the silhouette became more realistic...as though I could see details which I hadn't been able to see before."

"Is that so strange, Christine, that your style would change?" came his quiet response. "I would be more concerned if your style remained the same."

Leaning her head against her hand, Christine continued to contemplate.

"What if I'm painting real people?"

"That is not unusual," he commented, "though you yourself have said that you paint only from the imagination."

"But how could I be painting a man all my life...when I had not met him until last fall?" she wondered.

There was a sudden stillness.

"Angel?" she whispered.

His voice emerged slowly, almost inaudible. "A man, did you say?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean?" His voice, careful in its neutrality, had a tense undertone.

"Today, at the gallery, I overheard a client comment that the silhouette in _Sunset_ appears to have something on its face," Christine explained. "The customer noticed similar shadowy figures in several other paintings. Now, when I gaze at _Sunset_ and other of my paintings, I keep envisioning Erik Arnaut. Isn't that odd?"

Her angel was silent.

She began to grow anxious. "Angel?"

_"Who_ is this client?" he demanded. "Who told you this!"

The intensity of his presence overwhelmed her, his voice filling the entire room.

"S-some professor," Christine stammered, shocked by her angel's uncharacteristic behavior.

"A professor?" His tone grew icy. "Don't give me vague answers, my dear. _What is his name?"_

The temperature had dropped, and the apartment had darkened considerably. Even the ticking of the clock seemed to slow to a deathly pace. The walls seemed to crowd her, and the painted people crammed upon the walls glared down at her with a thousand accusing, glowing eyes.

"Angel, I..." Her heartbeat hammered at dizzying speed. She could not think, let alone speak. The people in her paintings seemed ready to leap from their frames.

Finally, she blurted, "He meant no harm, Angel, truly he did not!"

Suddenly, all was sad and empty.

The clock resumed its timely ticking, and Christine began to wonder, during the long, lingering seconds which followed, whether or not her angel had left.

Then, he spoke, his voice oddly hesitant. "Forgive me..."

Christine laughed nervously, "You mustn't worry, Angel. I know you wouldn't harm me." She tried to change the subject to something more neutral. "I'm just wondering why I'm painting Erik Arnaut."

"Christine," he called her name in a strange, hushed tone, "why must you speak of _that man?_ Why?"

"I don't know," she admitted, once again flustered by the forceful quality in her angel's voice. "Perhaps it's because he seems to understand me for who I am. Perhaps it's because he's also an artist. Perhaps it's because he understands passion and the wildness of the soul." Her voice softened. "Not even the Allisons understood me so well."

"You overestimate him."

"No," Christine shook her head, "he's a great musician. I knew the moment I heard him play. He's no stranger to passion, to the invisible meaning behind things. I hope to see him again."

There was a rustling of feathers as her angel shifted in the darkness. He was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his tone was distant.

"You might not be painting Arnaut after all, my dear. Your work is abstract and highly symbolic. Though there might be similarities among figures; the beauty of your art is that it is flexible. It could be interpreted any number of ways. Your subjects have always been faceless. They appear in worlds without context."

She released a breath, disappointed by the sudden professionalism in his voice.

"Perhaps," she replied. "But now I keep seeing Mr. Arnaut. I keep seeing myself as well...even though the girl looks nothing like me."

"Why are you eager to limit your paintings to real people?" he asked sharply. "Why not leave your paintings open to the multitude of possibilities?"

"Limit?" Christine repeated, considering her response. "I'm not trying to limit. But Angel, wouldn't it be fascinating to explore a more realistic style? To work more slowly and thoroughly on each painting so I can see every detail, every tiny detail in the painting? To paint a face where before there was only a hastily-filled blankness?"

"Realistic..." It was an echo torn from his lips. _"Why?"_

"I'm getting bored with symbolism, with the abstract. In abstract art, you can hide your emotions." She admitted softly, "The creator doesn't have to be vulnerable."

"You wish to become_ vulnerable?_" he asked. "To grow so intimate with your paintings that they make you shudder?"

"I don't know why," she whispered, "but it is what I must do. It's only a slight change in style, isn't it? A little experimentation can't hurt, so what's the harm in it?"

When he spoke, his voice was soft and low. "Madness, Christine. I have worked hard to rid you of those visions you experienced months ago. Yet now you wish to risk it all over again."

"What has this to do with my art?" she asked, her brows furrowing.

"Nothing as of now...I only advise you to be careful what you wish for. Is it truly 'a little experimentation' that you desire, my dear? You can fool yourself, but you cannot deceive your angel. This is not really about your art, is it?"

"I don't understand."

"Do try to reason with yourself." His tone was gentle, but solemn. "I can feel how curious you are, how tempted you are to latch onto that which _seems_ to hold answers for you. The professor came to you today. Like the serpent, he tempted you to try an apple...no, only a _bite_ of the apple. It tasted good, did it not? It instilled in you a ravenous hunger to devour the _whole_ fruit, did it not? The question is, will you take the bait or will you leave it?"

She shivered, feeling the truth of his words.

When he spoke next, his voice was but a whisper, "I only wish the best for you, my love. Naturally, you are curious. But there is truth to the saying: _let sleeping dogs lie_...We would not wish to awaken _monsters_ which are best left untouched..."

Was it only her imagination, or did his voice seem to shudder?

"Think carefully upon your decision, my dear. You do not know the value of sanity and stability...only until they are lost..."

Christine froze, feeling his breath upon the back of her neck, the ghost of a caress upon her bare shoulders.

"Is the apple worth its price?"

His lips hovered dangerously close to her ear, lingering for a fraction of a second. Then, there was a coolness in the air, and she knew, without a doubt, that her angel had departed.


	31. Swallowing the Bait

**Chapter 31: Swallowing the Bait**

Belief. It was such a simple concept. The act of believing in oneself, however, remained far more elusive. Christine, despite her angel's warning, had mustered up the courage to call the Professor and arrange a meeting. In truth, she was dreading the price of her actions. She had agonized long and hard about her decision, and had come to the conclusion that she would rather face her angel's disapproval than live a life without ever discovering that which made her feel most alive. As she waited nervously in the Juilliard lobby, Christine did everything to distract herself from the overwhelming urge to leave.

Her angel would understand, wouldn't he?

Christine cast an uneasy glance over her shoulder. Surely he would know she had acted against his warning. As she sat there, trapped in her anxiety, she barely noticed the students and teachers rushing past. Her angel had not demanded much of her, nor attempted to control her. In fact, he had made it clear that it was her decision. Why then, did she shiver at the possibility of him discovering her meeting with the Professor, as though the act itself were not only disobedient, but forbidden, even dangerous? She smoothed her skirt, glanced at her watch, wrung her hands, and bit her lip.

There was a chime as the elevator arrived. Christine immediately recognized the foreign, middle-aged man walking briskly toward her. Abruptly, she rose to her feet.

Professor Ernestino beamed at her. "Miss Day, I'm so happy you came. There's so much I want to share with you regarding my research."

"Please call me Christine," she replied sincerely.

"And I, Nathan." The Professor's eyes twinkled as he held her gaze, and for one moment, the image of him dressed in old-fashioned garb flickered through her mind.

Before Christine could ponder this befuddling vision, the Professor continued in his strange, accented English. "Let's go upstairs, shall we?"

Christine felt somewhat relieved as they boarded the elevator. She couldn't help the suspicion that someone had been watching her in the lobby the entire time.

"Le Fântome has fascinated me for years," the Professor's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Even before the unexpected discovery of _Le Triomphe_."

He paused, his expression growing serious.

"At present, the musicology world is in uproar as to whether Le Fântome truly existed," the Professor continued. "There is a significant group of people who believe Le Fântome was mere fiction, an ingenious and elaborate hoax on the part of the Paris Opera Populaire to attract tourists and audience members. The name 'Le Fântome,' or 'Opera Ghost,' belongs to the realm of myth. The story of a terrifying Ghost haunting the passages of the Opera Populaire only enhances the building's mystique. Even the 1871 premiere of _Le Triomphe_, which remains one of the most scandalous moments in history, remains clouded in mystery. Only the recent discovery of _Le Triomphe_ suggests evidence of Le Fântome."

"Suggests?" Christine echoed, as they stepped off the elevator and onto the fifth floor. "Wouldn't the manuscript prove that he was real, rather than merely suggest?"

"You must understand that we know Le Fântome only through few and dubious sources," the Professor explained, "such as tabloids written by journalists who claimed to have interviewed a ballerina or cast member. Such sources always involve a high degree of sensationalism and cannot be taken seriously."

They turned down a narrow corridor.

"Furthermore," the Professor continued, "_Le Triomphe_ could have been composed by someone secretly hired by the Opera Populaire to create an opera as the fictional Fântome. According to financial records, the Opera House had accumulated a serious amount of debt prior to the premiere of _Le Triomphe_. Sales were doing quite poorly.

"Programming _Le Triomphe_ could have been a desperate, but brilliant, attempt to use the sensationalism surrounding Le Fântome to increase sales. There is some truth to this argument. Studies show that Ghost-related activity was directly proportional to Opera sales. Sales were at an all-time low when there was no sighting or activity of the Opera Ghost, and at an all-time high when the Ghost was involved. _Le Triomphe_, for instance, was sold out for all performances during the first few weeks it was scheduled to run. Had the fire not happened the opening night, _Le Triomphe_ would have made the Opera Populaire a substantial amount of money."

"If Le Fântome was mere myth, then who could have been behind such an ingenious plan?" Christine murmured. "Certainly, the manuscript could give us some clues?"

"Unfortunately, we have no way of finding those answers. _Le Triomphe_ was delivered into the hands of the new owner so quickly that no one had a chance to examine it." The Professor paused before a door, fumbling with his keys. "At the very least, we would need to perform various scientific tests, including handwriting and stylistic analyzes. Given that the new owner has ignored several requests to access the manuscript, we are left with mere speculation."

Swinging the door to his office wide open, the Professor gestured for her to enter.

Christine took the opportunity to gaze about the office. Numerous pictures, including a concert poster for _Le Triomphe_ _de Don Juan_, littered the walls. Stacks of books and papers were piled upon the desk. Photographs of distant and strange lands, along with books on a variety of topics, cluttered the bookshelf. Odd artifacts were scattered haphazardly about the room.

Pulling out a chair, the Professor offered her a seat. "Please make yourself comfortable."

Christine obliged, amused by the man's old-fashioned manners. "I still don't understand. Why isn't the owner interested in issues of authorship?"

The Professor turned toward her, the frustration apparent in his eyes. "Unfortunately, this owner seems as pig-headed as other manuscript owners I've had the misfortune of dealing with. This person is even worse than those who believe that merely touching a manuscript will diminish its value. However," the Professor's eyes narrowed, "I do find it strange that someone would pay an exorbitant price for a manuscript without questioning its authenticity."

Christine's eyes widened, "You mean the manuscript could be a fake?"

"Who knows?" the Professor shrugged. "Just because some auctioneer says it is the authentic _Le Triomphe de Don Juan_, must one believe him? I was present at the auction, and the auctioneer basically justified his claim according to the script written across the front of the manuscript. He held up the score and pointed to the title page. That was all. Still, the score being a fake is an unlikely scenario."

"Were you able to see the manuscript up close?" Christine asked.

"I wasn't able to have a good look at the manuscript, unfortunately," the Professor replied. "Nor do I know anything about the owner's identity. The purchase was made by the owner's assistant, you see."

Christine's thoughts returned to Erik Arnaut. What exactly was his involvement with _Le Triomphe_? Mr. Arnaut did not seem like a man who would be easily duped. No, she was certain he would have known the manuscript was authentic before paying such a price. But why did he insist on all the secrecy?

"I will tell you something else," the Professor continued. "Not only did the assistant purchase _Le Triomphe_, he also purchased a curious selection of additional items from the De Chagny archive – papers, letters, diaries, documents. Jewelry, furniture, and other valuables were left behind, with the exception of a plain, gold ring. This suggests the new owner was not motivated by material gain, but by the history of the De Chagny family."

Christine's brows furrowed, her head spinning. "But how is this new owner connected with the De Chagny family? And how is the De Chagny family involved with Le Fântome and the Opera Populaire?"

"That is what everyone _should_ be asking, if they were not so caught up in the fact that the manuscript sold for three million dollars,"the Professor replied. "I know nothing about the new owner. But I can tell you a short answer to your second question. It is not so strange, Christine, that _Le Triomphe_ ended up in the hands of the De Chagny's. The De Chagny's were longtime patrons of the Opera Populaire. Even the last of the family, Marie de Chagny, was a patron of the Opera. What is striking, however, is that no one mentioned the possession of the manuscript. Whoever knew of the survival of _Le Triomphe_ simply allowed people to believe the manuscript had been lost or destroyed in the fire."

"So, you're suggesting the De Chagny's deliberately hid the existence of the score," Christine stated. "Why would they do that?"

"Actually, your assessment is not quite correct," the Professor responded. "I do not believe everyone in the De Chagny family knew of the manuscript. It was discovered among boxes and boxes of possessions that had been stored away for decades. More likely, there were only a few people involved, and they died without telling anyone else about the score."

"Then, the knowledge was not passed down from generation to generation," Christine deduced.

"That would be my guess," he replied.

"If you don't mind my asking," Christine interjected, "how on earth are you going to write a book about Le Fântome when there is so little known about him?"

"An excellent question," the Professor smiled. "The irony, though, is that more is written about mystery than anything else in the world. A book isn't just a body of answers. It is also a source of endless questions. Curiosity is what drives the best and worst of humanity. I am sure you are responding to a similar need, perhaps manifest in your own painting..."

Christine laughed uneasily, shocked by the sudden shift in conversation to something deeply personal. Unbidden, images of her _Sunset_ painting and Erik Arnaut flashed through her mind.

"We all want answers...I suppose..." she said.

There was a moment of silence as the Professor sat back in his chair, absently twiddling his thumbs.

Christine glanced uncomfortably at her watch.

"Sorry, I'm boring you, aren't I?" he asked apologetically, his eyes losing their distant expression. "In any case, all I'll need from you are pictures for my book. This means I will send you chapters every few weeks. I haven't yet completed the work, so what you will receive might be edited at any moment. I would also ask that we occasionally meet as part of our collaboration. If this is agreeable to you, please have your agent contact mine. They could settle on the details of this arrangement."

The Professor began to stand.

"Professor, I do have one thing I must tell you," Christine interrupted.

His eyes lifted from behind his glasses. "Yes?"

"I'm completely overbooked with commissions at present. It's rather spontaneous of me," she continued hesitantly, "but I might be taking singing lessons."

"Singing lessons?" he asked. "With whom?"

"Well," Christine replied, her voice small and timid, "a very long time ago, Lou Jensen, a friend of mine, suggested that I ask soprano Carla Rivers to recommend a teacher. I believe she works here?"

"You know Lou?" his eyebrows raised in surprise. "This is certainly unexpected. Have you sung before?"

"No, but..."

"Have you ever played an instrument?" he asked.

"When I was a child, I played the violin..."

"Fascinating," the Professor remarked. "Well, I guess you are not as interested in this book collaboration as I had thought."

"But I am," she hastened to correct. "You see, I was curious about Le Fântome from the moment I heard of him. After meeting you, I've only become more intrigued. In fact, I haven't been so interested in a commission for some time...not even those I paint for my benefactor..." Christine slapped her hand to her mouth, her eyes widening.

"I see," the Professor said after a moment. "You have a benefactor, did you say?"

Christine continued to stare straight ahead, as though frozen. Did she really admit she would rather paint for the Professor than for her benefactor?

"I-I..." she stammered, "I will need time to think about your proposal."

"I understand," he replied, smiling warmly. "You have a lot on your mind." Moving toward the door, he continued, "And you love music, don't you? I've noticed many musical themes in your painting. You have an affinity for music as Degas had for those ballerinas. In fact...if you have some time right now, I'd like to take you to the Office of Vocal Arts. They'll be able to put you in contact with Carla Rivers, especially if Lou suggested it."


	32. The Diva

**Chapter 32: The Diva  
**

When Professor Ernestino and Christine reached the Office, they were greeted by the sight of a well-dressed woman speaking animatedly with the secretary. Christine recognized the soprano immediately from the numerous posters at the Metropolitan Opera House. For a moment, all she could do was gape. She could hardly believe the famous soprano was standing right in front of her.

"What do you mean, he refused another time?" the diva demanded. "Were you able to at least speak with him personally?"

"I'm sorry, Ms. Rivers, his assistant made it clear that he would not teach any master classes," the secretary replied. "He also requested that we do not contact him again, or he would sue the School for harassment."

"What nerve!" Rivers exclaimed. She grabbed her handbag, about to huff past, when Professor Ernestino cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, Carla—"

The soprano suddenly turned, pasting a plastic smile upon her lips, "Yes, what is it, Nathan?"

"Lou Jensen recommended you to this young lady here..." The Professor smiled charismatically, "That is, if you have a moment?"

Ms. Rivers' eyes angled upon Christine. "What voice type are you?"

Christine hesitated, taken aback by the sudden inquiry. "Soprano...I think."

"That sounded a tad too tentative," the diva remarked. "You are a singer, right?"

"Well, actually..." Christine looked down at her feet, "I'm a beginner."

"A beginner?" Rivers echoed. "Lou recommended me to a beginner?" She turned toward Professor Ernestino, but the man had disappeared. Her lips tightening, she asked Christine, "Can you even read music?"

"I studied violin as a child," she replied. "And, um, Lou didn't recommend you as a teacher for me. He suggested I ask you to recommend an appropriate teacher. I didn't mean to give you the wrong impression."

"Oh." Rivers looked visibly relieved. "So, you can read a little music, but have no previous experience?"

"Yes," Christine responded politely, "but you must understand I am very serious about these lessons and want only the best teacher."

"With all due respect," the older woman began, "there is no one here in the College Division who has the time to teach a complete beginner."

Catching the glint of condescension in the diva's eyes, Christine lifted her chin. "I studied music as a child. It was said I was very talented and had perfect pitch. I shall work very hard."

Ms. Rivers raised a skeptical brow, before shrugging. "I've heard that many times," she replied after a moment, "but no matter. I'll give you names of teachers I know."

As the woman scribbled down the names, Christine took the opportunity to glance about the Office. Several photos and certificates hung upon the walls. The room even had a microwave and refrigerator.

"Here," the diva thrust the paper into Christine's hands, "this will do." She glanced at the clock, unconsciously tapping her fingers.

Perusing the list of names, Christine frowned.

"With all due respect," Christine began, wincing as she realized she was throwing the diva's words back at her, "I am well aware these people are known for teaching children in the Pre-College division."

The woman's eyes lifted in annoyance.

"You do not seem to realize the impracticalities of what you are asking. The best teachers take only the best students. Surely, you understand this. It's ridiculous to consider a complete beginner when one has the choice of students who are at a professional level."

"I understand," Christine replied, frustrated by the woman's cold logic, "but certainly you could tell me the name of a more serious teacher? Even if the College faculty won't take beginners, perhaps there is someone else you have in mind?"

Ms. Rivers laughed unpleasantly. "Well, there's that recluse, Erik Arnaut. But he only teaches whom he wishes. Even then, they are only the most promising students. He has given occasional lessons to some of my students, but it is never a consistent thing." She scoffed, "You do realize, no one is able to get ahold of the man. He is simply impossible, with the most horrendous manners imaginable. Even when my students beg for more lessons, he refuses. The man refuses to give master classes at our School. He even threatened to sue if we kept contacting him. I'm afraid he won't have anything to do with the likes of you. I can't give you his contact information, if that's what you want."

"Erik Arnaut teaches voice?" Christine brightened. "I'd love to see him again."

The woman's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Oh, I merely attended his concert last year," Christine smiled, reflecting back upon the amazing event. "It was like entering an entirely different world."

Ms. Rivers regarded Christine from keenly-aware slits. "It's too bad you didn't try speaking with him then," she said flippantly. "He's known to disappear for months at a time. The only people who have ever been able to speak with the man have done so by barreling their way backstage at his concerts. Guess you'll have to wait until the next concert."

"I don't think so," Christine stated, irritated by the diva's snobbery. "But thank you for the information. I've found exactly what I was looking for."

Without waiting for a response, she headed out the door.


	33. Terms of Engagement

**Chapter 33: Terms of Engagement**

**  
**Twenty minutes later, Christine was heading up the stairs to the entrance of Mr. Arnaut's building. She reflected upon the events of her last visit, her steps faltering as she remembered the apartment's strange ambiance. She recalled the haunted, empty silence in the absence of the owner, the absurdly thunderous chimes of the cuckoo clock, the perfectly-fitted dresses she had worn that had belonged to another, and the windowless, stuffy storage room in which she had experienced the hallucination of a sheet-covered corpse.

It took her a moment to realize she was standing at the building entrance. She reached out and tried the door. To her surprise, it was locked.

Christine looked over her shoulder, toward the noisy street which seemed to have darkened. Perhaps she should turn back, return home, and reconsider her decision. Already, she was beginning to lose her nerve.

As though upon its own accord, her hand reached into the bottom of her purse, grasping cold, spidery metal. Her eyes widened with recognition.

Hadn't she returned Mr. Arnaut's keys almost a year ago? If so, what were they doing in her pocketbook?

Her hand trembling, she tried a key in the front door lock. It didn't fit. She tried the second key, turning.

_"Christine," _the walls seemed to chant._ "Christine, Christine, Christine."_

She leapt back, spooked.

Several minutes later, she twisted the key in the lock and pushed open the entrance door.

The lobby was exactly as she remembered it, as spacious and quiet as a tomb. The sound of her footsteps upon the stone floor echoed into the darkened corridors.

Moving quickly toward the elevator, she pressed the button. The elevator doors opened, and she realized the lights inside had burned out. After a moment's deliberation, she stepped inside. The doors closed immediately, and it was nearly pitch black. Christine broke out in a cold sweat, not daring to move.

Was it only her imagination, or did she hear the breathing of another beside her?

As soon as the elevator jolted to a stop, she rushed out. Already, she could hear the gentle tones of the piano permeating the air. Allowing the music wash over her, Christine felt herself sigh with relief. Finally, Christine was able to muster her courage. She lifted her hand and knocked.

The music stopped. After a few minutes of silence, the door opened. The snow-white cat appeared by her feet and hissed.

Christine took an involuntary step back.

"Miss Day."

She instantly felt a pull upon her soul at the curt greeting. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound emerged.

Mr. Arnaut regarded her expressionlessly. He wore an ivory mask, bearing an elegant carving of a rose in one corner. It was smaller than the other half-masks she had seen him wear, providing her with a generous view of his lips. His shirt was buttoned casually, a few buttons left open at the top.

"What are you doing here?"

Mr. Arnaut was frowning, and Christine realized she was staring. Not only that, she was staring straight at the expanse of muscle exposed by the open collar of his shirt.

Blushing, Christine dragged her gaze from his chest. "I didn't have your phone number, so I decided to come instead." The words burst forth like an uncontrollable spring. "I hope you don't mind. I mean, we don't know each other that well. But I didn't know how else to contact you. I've been thinking about you for a while now. I've never thanked you properly."

His frown deepened.

Christine babbled on, "I had to see you. I mean, I really wanted to see you again. It was really nice of you to help me months ago. I can't thank you enough! It was truly miraculous. Like an angel to the rescue! Yes, an angel—"

He winced, holding up a hand,_ "Stop!"_ Yanking the door wide open, he ushered her inside. "Sit down." His jaw clenched with barely-restrained emotion. "I will make you some tea. Yes, some chamomile. Perhaps then, you'll be able to...talk properly."

Abruptly, he left.

Christine felt torn between embarrassment and annoyance. Crimson stained her cheeks as she glared at the floor.

_Talk properly, indeed!_

He returned with a steaming cup, setting it roughly upon the table in front of her. "Drink."

"Do you always order around your guests?" she snapped, surprising them both. She was still trembling, she realized. Her heart continued to thump rapidly in her chest.

"Before you consider yourself a guest," he snorted, "you might recall that I did not invite you here." His eyes flashing, he maintained an icy formality. "State your business, Miss Day, then take your leave."

The deadly calm in his voice caused shivers to run down her spine. At the same time, she felt the lump of disappointment in her throat. After the death of her parents, Mr. Arnaut had not visited her once. He had not even contacted her. So caught up in the sudden throbbing in her chest, she completely missed the guilty expression upon the face of her host. She lifted the cup to her lips and managed a tiny sip.

"I would like you to teach me how to sing," she said. "I am prepared to pay whatever price you have in mind."

His entire frame stiffened.

"Carla Rivers mentioned you teach singing," Christine began tentatively. "You do, don't you?"

He did not respond.

"Oh, I get it," Christine muttered. "It's a crazy idea. Everyone thinks I've gone off the deep end. Why would you be any different?"

Mr. Arnaut did not move.

"I knew it." Christine looked anywhere but at him. "Well, I'm leaving. I'm sorry to have wasted your time."

"Miss Day." His voice was very quiet.

Christine stilled, then shook her head. "Don't even say you're sorry. I don't want to hear it."

She could not understand why she was so upset. She had managed to brush aside the opinions of everyone else. Why then, did the decision of this man seem so important? Why was it so painful?

"Miss Day," he repeated, a little stronger this time.

"What? What on earth can you say to me, now that I've made a fool of myself?" She began to push back the chair, blinking back tears.

"Christine!"

The sound of her first name upon his lips stunned her into silence. She stared back at him with wide eyes.

"If you must, you could pursue singing..."

Christine attempted to calm her nerves. Fumbling for the cup, she took another sip.

"But I am not the right teacher for you..."

She bit out, "Am I that hopeless?"

His brows furrowed. "It has nothing to do with your ability or potential."

"At least tell me why."

He turned away, "I...I...It has been a long time."

"What do you mean?"

When he looked at her again, his gaze had hardened. "I owe you no explanations, Miss Day. You may take your leave now."

"No explanations! After all _this!_" She slammed down her cup. To her immense dismay, the china exploded into pieces. The tea sloshed upon the table, nearly burning her fingertips where they still gripped the handle._ "Oh!"_

With lightning speed, he grabbed her wrist.

Christine attempted to pull away, but his grip was merciless.

"How dare you," he hissed. His mask pressed against her nose, his hot breath against her cheek. "You ungrateful _child...!"_

His grip tightened, then he twisted, forcing her to release the handle. She felt true fear chill her being. He was so strong and tall, he towered over her like a shadow. Those beautiful, spidery hands – they could break her with an effortless snap. In that moment, she knew, with an awful certainty, those hands had killed. The image of him, his nails caked with blood, calmly looping a rope, flashed through her mind. A tiny whimper escaped her lips.

He immediately let go, abruptly leaving the room. A moment later, he returned, methodically cleaning up the mess.

Christine stared at the broken shards, her cheeks burning with shame.

"You would not wish to study with me," he stated flatly.

She looked up, hesitantly.

"How many times must I tell you? Return to your painting, Miss Day."

She could not name the emotion in his voice. Was it anger or thinly-veiled grief? Why did she feel drawn toward him, like a moth to an all-consuming fire?

She shivered. "I-I don't understand."

"Don't understand _what_, Christine?" he spat. "I will not teach you. That is final."

Was that desperation which leaked out from his voice?

He dumped the last of the broken china, then began to pace...like a tiger locked in a cage. If he could not teach her, then why did he continue pacing...as though waiting?

Somewhere deep within her being, she knew he really couldn't refuse, once she had wished it. If it was a wish conveyed whole-heartedly from her spirit, her angel could not deny her. Her innermost being knew this, yet her conscious mind was still distracted by surface, illusory details.

Mr. Arnaut stopped his pacing and gestured toward the door. "Are you deaf, girl?" he demanded. "Get out!"

Her eyes narrowing in determination, she took a step towards him.

He glared at her. A finger pointed toward the door. "Go!"

The word tumbled from her lips. "No."

An eyebrow lifted.

She did not know what mad desire claimed her, but she crossed the distance between them. "I want you as my teacher. Only you."

He regarded her warily. "What are you playing at?"

"I make my own decisions. I bear my own burden of responsibility. Not you, not anyone else!" She reached out and possessively grabbed his arm.

His entire frame stiffened in shock, and for one, nauseating moment, Christine felt as though she were supporting not only her own weight, but a far greater one. The sensation was staggering, and she stumbled back a few steps. What was this heaviness she was experiencing?

He caught her as she fell backward, inadvertently calling out her name.

As she lay, dazed within his embrace, she realized he was trembling beneath her. He did not move or say a word, only stared at her with inexplicable tenderness. It seemed as though a bit of light shone through his eyes like a ray of sun penetrating the clouds. His eyes seemed to glow silver, and Christine realized, with astonishment, that the silvery sheen belonged to tears.

What trick of the light was this?

Christine felt her mouth grow dry. She could feel his gaze piercing her, the heat of his body through his shirt. She could feel the rapid thumping of her heart. He was so close, she could see the slight flush in his exposed cheek. She wanted to call his name, but she could not speak. It was too exhausting even to move.

Then, he turned away, his eyes closing in pained resignation. The words emerged so softly from his lips, she could have imagined it. "You fool." He dumped her unceremoniously upon a chair.

At the same time, the weight lifted. The shadows obscuring his eyes returned. His face was completely indifferent as though nothing had happened. He turned, and the mask faced her.

"I will teach you on one condition." His voice was flat.

"If it's money," she began quietly, "I'll pay the—"

"I do not accept monetary payment for my lessons," he interrupted. He slowly turned to face her.

She shivered, suddenly afraid.

"If you are to study with me, you must give up painting and dedicate your life entirely to music."

"That's ridiculous!" Christine protested. "Painting is my livelihood. You can't expect me to—"

"Take it or leave it," he snapped, taking a step forward.

She stumbled backward, finding herself speechless. He _was_ serious, she realized. But it was such an unreasonable demand!

"I will see you tomorrow afternoon." He moved closer. "One o'clock sharp."

Christine found herself backing down the hallway.

"Only come if you are serious about studying with me." The nose of his mask nearly touched hers.

She stepped back. "But—"

He took a few more steps, his eyes boring into hers. "_If_ you come tomorrow, you will address me as Maestro."

"Yes, but—" Christine nearly tripped over a chair as she passed by the coat rack.

"You will bring a notebook with which you will keep track of your assignments," he interrupted, continuing to advance.

She took an involuntary step back. "A moment, please—"

"If you have any doubt," he interrupted, taking hold of her shoulders and forcibly leading her out the door, "don't ever contact me again."

Christine opened her mouth to protest, but suddenly found the door slammed in her face. She was still standing in the darkened corridor when the piano began to play from inside the apartment.


	34. An Impossible Decision

**Chapter 34: An Impossible Decision**

Returning home, Christine threw down her bags, before checking every room, seeking the presence of her angel.

"Angel!" she called, rushing into the bedroom. "Angel, angel, angel!" Impulsively, she threw open the curtains, checked behind every door, peered inside every closet.

Where could he be? She hadn't felt her angel's presence since last week. It was unusual for him to stay away for so long.

A terrible panic engulfed her. Could he have discovered her actions of the day and abandoned her? Could he have left without saying goodbye?

Slumping against the wall, she closed her eyes and forced herself to swallow the intense emotions which threatened to surface.

'Stop worrying so much,' she scolded herself. 'He'll understand. He always does.'

Forcing a calming breath, she picked herself up.

That was when she noticed the small, unaddressed envelope lying upon the table.

Opening it, she read:

**Christine,  
**

**Congratulations! Your paintings have caught the interest of several European curators, collectors, and critics. Your benefactor has organized a trip to showcase your paintings in Europe. He will pay for all trip expenses. Enclosed, you will find the details of the schedule. We await your reply at your earliest convenience.**

**Emily**

Her hands trembling, Christine glanced over the itinerary. It was packed. She would be traveling all over Europe – Paris, Rome, Florence, Berlin, Munich, Barcelona, Madrid, London, Dublin – the list was endless. She would be meeting with critics, dealers, collectors, and curators from all over the world. Her art would be showcased in galleries and museums.

Christine could barely contain her enthusiasm. She had never been to Europe before! What would it be like? She could visit the Louvre, the Sistine Chapel, the Uffizi Gallery, the British Museum. She could attend performances of the Berlin Philharmonic, the Paris Opera, even La Scala if she traveled to Milan...

Amidst these wild thoughts, Erik Arnaut's dark and demanding voice suddenly rang through her mind:

_"If you are to study with me, you must give up painting and dedicate your life entirely to music."_

"Oh god," she groaned, covering her face with her hands.

Evidently, her angel had been planning such a trip all along. How would he respond if she were to turn down this opportunity?

It was then that she began to shake, the full implications of her impending decision staring her in the face. She would throw away everything – her entire life's work and a piece of her soul – for what? For a mere musical whim?

Christine reflected upon her childhood, during a time her purpose had been crystal clear. How easily she had told the Allisons that she longed for a life of painting! As a family, they had worked so hard together to encourage her to nurture her talent. She had lost count of how many times her mother took her to her nightly art lessons. Or the smile upon her father's face when he showed her paintings to co-workers in the office. How proud they would be if they could see her now! If they were here...if they were to witness this opportunity...

She had _promised_ them. She had promised _herself_. She even had _divine_ support. Yet her heart...her fickle heart was pining away for music...The more she thought about it, the more impossible the decision seemed.

Then, she looked at the trip's dates. She was scheduled to leave _next week_.

As though sensing her need for distraction, the phone rang.

Christine immediately picked up. "Hello?"

"Hey Chris," Ray exclaimed, "I've just heard the good news! Why didn't you tell me you submitted your work to the Tate Gallery? When are you leaving?"

The Tate Gallery in London was one of the venues listed on her travel itinerary. But how could Ray know about her trip? Could Ray be associated with her benefactor? Could _he_ be her anonymous benefactor? Could she be mistaken by assuming her benefactor was her angel?

"What! But I...How..." she stammered, spooked, "how did you know?"

"How could I _not_ know?" Ray laughed. "Don't you remember my good friend Marc Gnaman works at the Tate? He can't wait to meet you."

"But I never submitted my work to that gallery," Christine blurted. "Nor the George Pompidou Center. Nor the Galeria Zero. Not any of them!"

There was a pause at the other end of the line. "Your work will be displayed at the George Pompidou Center and the Galeria Zero, too?" he inquired softly. "Chris, that's incredible!"

"Oh Ray," she sighed, "I only received the news today. It _is_ amazing...but none of it is my doing. I owe everything to my benefactor. I never told you about him...about my benefactor..."

"You have a benefactor?" he asked, surprised.

"I don't even know his name. I've never met him. I've never even spoken with him." Chris shook her head in frustration. "It's like he's obsessed with remaining anonymous. I just don't understand all the secrecy. He's done so much for me, yet all I can think of is how disappointed I am...I'm always left in the dark. I can't even thank him properly."

"That is an unusual situation," Ray commented.

"But I'm really, really lucky, you know," she continued. "He pays all my living expenses. He acts as my dealer. He rents the art gallery in Soho for me. He hires my staff. He commissions me."

"He's done all that?" Ray fell silent for a moment. "That's too good to be true..."

Christine laughed, "Surely, you're not suspicious! He's never attempted to contact me, and seems intent on thwarting my every attempt to contact _him_. "

"Well," he hedged, "it's just amazing he does so much for you...How did he know about you in the first place?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "He must've viewed my work at the street stand or from a customer who bought my art."

"You mean you've had a benefactor from the time you used to sell paintings on the street?!" Ray exclaimed. "You've had a benefactor for _that_ long, and you never told me?"

She bit her lip. "Well, I..."

"What's been going on, Chris?"

"Well, there's not much to say," she fibbed. "I mean, I myself don't know much about him."

"Did you have any steady customers whom you can think of?" Ray queried. "Anyone at all who might be this benefactor?"

Christine had always suspected her benefactor was her angel, but Ray's question made her remember a strange spectator.

"Now that you mention it," she began, "there was a man who would always stop at my street stand and stare at my work. I never got a good view of his face because he was always wearing a hat. He would only appear while I was busy with other customers. Sometimes, he would observe my paintings from a distance. Before I could approach him, he would disappear. This man...he never said a thing. After I started working at the gallery, I never saw him again. But I always sensed he was searching for something in my paintings."

"How interesting," Ray remarked. "What do you think he was looking for?"

"There was one painting in particular which seemed to fascinate him the most," she replied.

"Go on," Ray prompted.

"It was a portrait of a man I had painted while in my teens." Christine shuddered when she thought of it. "I kept painting the face over and over again. But I could never get it right. In the end, I gave up and sold it. Even now, I don't think I could truly finish the work. The man's face...it was horrible...I'm embarrassed to admit it...but my own painting frightened me. I don't think I could bring myself to paint such a thing again."

Ray remained silent on the other end.

"It gives me the creeps just envisioning it," she confessed.

"Perhaps that spectator is your benefactor," Ray suggested.

Christine scrunched her nose at the possibility. "That man? I doubt it."

"I can't help but feel that the situation is odd," Ray commented. "You say you never saw that spectator again?"

"No."

Ray didn't say anything.

"Well anyway," Christine began lightly, "I'm scheduled to fly to Europe next week."

"That soon?" Ray asked, shocked. "Your benefactor gives you only one week to prepare?"

"Yeah, he's never arranged anything so sudden before," she admitted. "Usually, he tells me about his plans in advance...or at least, gives me more time to prepare. I had no idea he was planning something so big."

"He must really believe in you."

Christine thought about her angel, wondering where he could be. "I wish I could believe in myself the same way."

"What do you mean?" Ray asked.

"I'm not so motivated to paint, anymore..."

"Sometimes it is _what_ you paint that might be the problem," Ray pointed out.

Christine hesitated, imagining for a moment what it would be like to paint for Professor Ernestino.

"It's normal for artists to get blocked from time to time," he continued.

"Perhaps that is the reason why I'm stuck." Christine regarded the papers in her hand guiltily. "All my paintings have been for him."

"He limits you, then? This benefactor?"

Had her angel ever tried limiting her?

"No, not really," she sighed. "He hasn't ever told me what to paint...but..."

"You can tell me, Chris," Ray encouraged.

"Well, I have a sense that there are certain subjects he would want me to avoid."

"Like what?"

Inwardly, she winced. "This is going to sound weird, but just bear with me, okay?"

"Okay."

"Do you remember we met with Lou several months ago? He had mentioned a friend who was trying to access the manuscript of _Le Triomphe_?" she began.

"_Le Triomphe_ sounds vaguely familiar," Ray replied.

"That's the manuscript that was discovered and sold for a few million," she reminded him.

"In any case, Lou's friend, a professor named Nathan Ernestino, is currently a musicologist who is writing a book on the composer of_ Le Triomphe_."

"Um...okay," Ray said, confusion evident in his voice.

"Le Fantôme is the composer of _Le Triomphe,_" she added. "But the main point is that Ernestino has recently asked me to create pictures for his book on Le Fantôme."

"Really..." Ray mused.

"Yes, but I have the feeling my ang—um, benefactor won't be particularly happy if I decide to take on this book project."

"Why not? It's not as though the guy has exclusive rights to your art."

"I haven't exactly been able to talk this over with him...but...I just have a feeling..."

"You've never met, spoken, or seen the guy, and you have a _feeling_?"

"I can't explain it," she sighed. "Just...just bear with me a little longer, okay?"

"Sure."

"Here's the thing," she stammered. "You know how Lou suggested I speak with Carla Rivers about singing lessons a while ago? I know you were against it, but I managed to speak with her...It wasn't planned or anything. In fact, Ernestino was the one who took me to her office."

"And...?"

"Well, I went and spoke with Rivers," she continued. "That woman's really nasty, Ray. I can't tell you how rude she was, despite her popularity." Christine took a deep breath. "To make the long story short, I found out Erik Arnaut teaches voice."

"Arnaut again, huh?" Ray's tone was neutral. "I thought that man was a pianist."

"I'm serious, Ray," Christine insisted. "Rivers obviously didn't think he would teach me. So, here's the crazy thing. I literally knocked on his door this evening, and demanded that he teach me. Can you believe I actually did that?"

"No way. You're kidding!"

"Never mind my actions, Ray. The important thing is that I managed to convince Erik Arnaut to agree to teach me _himself_," Christine stressed.

"Christ," Ray swore. "I can't believe you actually went to his home. But I'm more astounded he agreed."

"I was pretty rude," Christine explained. "He wanted me to leave, but I just kept insisting until he caved in."

"So," he suddenly asked, "what's he like?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you've mentioned him before," Ray said, "but you've never told me much."

"I guess..." Christine found herself immediately censoring what she was revealing. "Well, I can't really figure him out. He's eccentric, you know? Extremely formal. Do you know he still prefers to call me 'Miss Day'?"

Ray chuckled. "What a weirdo. From what I understand, you two are only a few years apart in age. Maybe the formalities are a cultural thing. He's not American, right? And what's up with the mask?"

Christine continued to chew her lip. "I've never asked."

"Maybe you should," he suggested. "Say something like, 'Hey dude, what's up with the mask? A fashion statement or something?' " He laughed.

"That's not funny, Ray."

"Sorry." He fell quiet for a few moments. "I just think this whole situation is freaky. First, you have a benefactor who gives everything to you...while taking every precaution to conceal his identity. Then, you have a masked recluse who takes special interest in you. Surely, this isn't normal. What do these people want from you?"

"I don't understand it any better than you do," Christine admitted, though inside, she was trembling.

Could someone be toying with her life? Could the existence of her angel be a mere trick? Was everything which was happening to her – all the 'miracles' – be, in fact, maneuvers to control, little by little, all aspects of her life? Why was she suddenly called away to Europe?

"You sound frightened," Ray observed. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"No, of course not," she replied hastily. "It's just that this whole European trip is disturbing. Even though I'm excited about traveling, I'm not really interested in pushing my painting career. In fact..." Christine decided to take the plunge. "Mr. Arnaut made one demand, if I were to take music lessons with him."

"See, he does want something," Ray pointed out.

"Yes," Christine reluctantly agreed. "He wants me to give up painting and devote myself completely to music."

_"What?!"_ Ray blurted. "He can't be serious!"

Christine sighed, "He's completely serious."

"Well, _you_ certainly aren't," Ray continued to rant. "I mean, you're a _painter_. Period. What the hell is he thinking, demanding something like that? You should've slapped him."

"He won't accept any money, Ray. Only this."

"It seems like you'd better find another teacher...if you're still set on singing."

Christine could hear the disapproval in Ray's voice. She was well aware he didn't support her decision to take music lessons.

"The oddest thing is that I want to learn music most of all," she admitted quietly.

"Chris, you've been saying that for the past several months!" Ray exclaimed, frustrated.

"But it makes no sense at all. You have your entire dream at your fingertips. Next week, you're leaving for Europe. Shit, you even have a benefactor. You can't throw away everything for some crazy demand."

"But Erik Arnaut is the top of the top in the music world," she argued. "He's far above any other musician I have heard. If I study music, it will be with him and no other!"

"You should hear yourself speak," Ray said, exasperated. "What you are saying is ludicrous. By god, Chris, there are times you really sound like you've lost your senses."

"I feel more sane than I have in a long time," she retorted stubbornly.

Ray did not respond right away. "Well," he said finally, "I just think Arnaut is being completely unreasonable. Promise me you'll think this over."

"I have to decide tonight."

"That's even more ridiculous!" Ray rallied. "What kind of man is he, pressuring you like this? Chris, promise me you won't agree. You can't give up painting. Not now, with so much at stake."

"Remember, Ray, I pressured him first."

"It's not the same."

Christine sighed, "Okay, I'll think about it. I've been thinking about it all night."

"Consider what you'd have to give up," Ray advised quietly. "You do realize, Chris, that you won't be traveling to Europe...if you start these music lessons. You won't be painting for Ernestino's book either. And what would your benefactor say after all he's done for you? You won't be painting unless you sneak behind Arnaut's back."

The thought of deceiving Erik Arnaut made her shiver.

"I know," she whispered. "And I do want to go to Europe. Believe me, I really want to go..."


	35. The First and Last Lesson?

**Chapter 35: The First and Last Lesson?**

**  
**When Christine reached Mr. Arnaut's apartment, she frowned. It sounded as though an entire orchestra were shrieking on the other side of the door. Taking a deep breath, she knocked. To her surprise, the door moved slightly under her fist. She stepped inside.

The wild cacophony assaulted her with renewed verve.

"Maestro?" she called, the noise drowning out her voice.

Her eyes widened as she caught sight of him. He was sprawled upon the living room sofa in unusual disarray. His shirt was open and untucked, his hair uncombed, the curls haphazardly falling over his face. His eyes were closed, and the visible part of his forehead knotted, as though in pain. For once, he was not wearing his gloves, and his sleeves were rolled up. Even in sleep, he wore his mask. Involuntarily, her eyes raked the length of his body, noting the smattering of scars peeking through his open shirt and the deep lines upon the undersides of his arms.

What was this self-inflicted torture?

Savage sounds continued to spill forth from newly-installed speakers on the ceiling.

Wrenching her gaze from him, Christine checked her watch. It was 1 PM. Impulsively, she crossed over to the stereo and turned off the stereo.

The silence was deafening.

He did not move.

She dared to draw closer, only a foot or so away from him.

He stirred, staring at her groggily. A moment later, he closed his eyes, turning away and murmuring, "Vision begone…."

Christine blinked. He thought she was a... hallucination?

As he rolled onto his side, Christine's gaze shifted to the strange bumps upon his back. Fascinated, she moved closer, reaching out to touch them.

With lightning speed, his hand shot out, catching her by the wrist.

Christine gasped, struggling to free herself from his grasp.

Wakefulness dawning in his eyes, he released her. For the first time, he seemed distracted, rubbing his head as though confused. He blinked, his initial confusion replaced by horror.

She hovered by him. "Are you okay?"

Sitting up, he pushed away a cushion in obvious frustration. "What are you doing here?"

Annoyed, she placed her hands upon her hips. "Did you forget about my lesson?"

He ignored her.

"If you thought that yesterday," she continued, "that I would just agree.…"

He quickly buttoned and tucked in his shirt.

She momentarily faltered, her gaze straying toward the restless movements of his fingers.

He stooped to retrieve his gloves from the floor.

"If you really believed..." she repeated, distracted.

He began to stand, still avoiding her gaze.

She leaned forward, trapping him. Her face inches from his, she forced him to look at her.

"_Listen_ to me." Her voice was quiet but enraged. She pushed him back against the sofa.

His lips parting in shock, he froze at the touch of her hand, which pressed insistently against his chest.

Christine was not prepared for the intensity of his gaze, which collided with her own. All speech died upon her lips, and she felt her breath quicken. Through his shirt, she could feel the wild beating of his heart. He continued to stare at her with an unreadable expression.

It was at that moment when the cat jumped in-between them with a hiss.

With a yelp, Christine stumbled back.

"Ayesha," Mr. Arnaut called, startled.

Christine found herself following the motion of his fingers as he automatically stroked the animal.

His hands were trembling.

He stood stiffly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"I don't have much time, Miss Day," he stated briskly. "Nor am I a patient man."

"I've come for my lesson." She lifted her chin. "And I refuse to give up painting."

"Oh?" he lifted an eyebrow. "I don't recall saying that my conditions were negotiable."

Christine ignored him. "Why must I stop painting? Don't you realize it's my profession?"

He said nothing.

"You're not even going to tell me why?" she asked, her anger returning.

"All you need to know are my terms, Miss Day."

Her gaze hardened. "I won't leave until you teach me."

He watched her, slightly amused. "Really."

"I'm going to wait right here."

"Are you that dense, Miss Day? Do you not realize I can haul you out of my apartment at any moment?"

She flushed, imagining what it would be like to be carried by him, even if it were due to him physically throwing her out.

"You wouldn't dare," she challenged.

"Oh?"

"I know something that might interest you."

He watched her, waiting.

"I'll state it plainly." She glared at him defiantly. "I'm in touch with a musicologist who is writing a book on the composer Le Fantôme."

He continued to stare at her.

"I'm aware he has been attempting to contact the owner of _Le Triomphe_," she continued, observing him closely. "What if the identity of the owner were made known?"

His eyes darkened.

She took an involuntary step back, suddenly afraid. What was that unnatural shadow which leapt forth behind the iciness of his gaze?

After an unnerving silence, he merely asked, "Is that all?"

She blinked. He hadn't even asked how she had known.

With an irritated gesture, he turned and walked away. "Follow me to the piano room, Miss Day."

Christine hurried after him. "Does this mean you will still teach me, even if I continue painting?"

He sat beside the piano, his fingers hovering over the keys.

"If you stand so stiffly," he stated flatly, "you will never produce a decent tone."

Christine felt herself tense, self-conscious as his eyes assessed her body.

He frowned, his hand dropping from the keyboard.

"Your chin is far too high."

She forced herself to relax.

"Now, your head is too low."

Adjusting her posture once again, she tried a new position.

His frown deepened, "That is not right either."

Frustrated, she glared at him. "Then, why don't you position me?"

"I forget you are a beginner," he scowled, standing. "You don't even know how to stand properly."

Before she could respond, he loomed over her. Her eyes widened at his sudden proximity as she found herself staring into his chest. He was so _tall!_ She felt one hand upon the small of back and another upon her abdomen. Startled, she jumped.

He flinched, releasing her as though burnt. His hands froze in the air, before he dropped them to his sides.

"I understand," he said quietly. "I will not touch you."

"No," she grabbed his shoulder, feeling him tense, "I asked you to correct my posture."

He shrugged off her hand, muttering, "I suppose it cannot be helped."

She frowned, but said nothing.

His hands resumed their former position upon her torso, his fingers attentive to the subtlest, necessary alteration. A gentle pressure was applied at the small of her back, and she felt her body surrender to the will of his hands.

She looked down, observing the spidery, elongated fingers, fascinated by how delicate they appeared in contrast to the obvious strength with which he played. Her eyes returning to his face, she realized how deeply he was concentrating. Her maestro was so focused upon her posture that Christine had the rare opportunity to study him at close range.

From this proximity, she could see the faint trace of stubble upon his chin, the determined dip of his lips, and the tiny concentration crinkles of his forehead. Even his eyes, when not focused directly upon her but merely an _aspect_ of her, had softened. If anything, they had cooled to a deep blue, much different than the intense green she was so accustomed to seeing. Christine had never seen eyes as his – ones whose color changed with the shifting of his mood.

His eyes suddenly rose to meet hers, and her breath quickened.

She had been staring again, wanting to paint the perfect contours of his fingers, the purity behind his seriousness, and the intricate creases of his face in contrast to the blank smoothness of his mask.

'Painting,' she thought, perplexed by her sudden longing, then pushed it to the back of her mind. She was sure he would be livid if she decided to paint him. She would do so, anyway, and make sure he never discovered it.

His lips moved, but she found it difficult to focus.

"What?" she asked, inexplicably dizzy.

"I said, 'Relax your head,' " he snapped.

She felt his fingers supporting the back of her head, his other hand cradling her jaw.

"You can feel the weight of your head, yes?"

"Yes," she murmured, trying not to enjoy the coaxing of his fingers.

"The head is quite heavy and therefore places much pressure upon the spinal cord. That is why the position of your head is crucial," he explained, his fingers slightly shifting. "There. That is how it should feel. Remember that."

Her head felt as though she were floating. She wanted to lean back against him. She wanted to relax against the quiet, sensual strength he unintentionally exuded.

All too soon, he released her.

Christine continued to stand, her spirit returning to her body. The feeling the awkwardness grew as she realized how close they were standing.

If he sensed her discomfort, he made no indication. Returning to the piano bench, he played a note.

"Sing, Christine."

She frowned at his tone. How much it contrasted with the gentle touch of his fingers!

"Sing," he commanded, impatient.

Almost at once, she let out a sound. It was tentative and barely audible.

He winced. He struck the note again, this time accompanying it with a chord. "Again. On 'la'. "

She obeyed.

"Breathe!" He ran an exasperated hand through his hair. "Don't you remember how to breathe?"

"Remember?" she shouted back.

His hand banged upon the piano. "Again."

She drew in a breath and sung.

"No. Again."

Tentatively, she sung. It was uncomfortable feeling his eyes upon her body. But hearing the wimpy sound of her voice was even more humiliating.

Christine dared not look at him.

A deadly silence followed.

"Where is your focus today?" he queried, his voice eerily calm. It was a dangerously casual tone, as though her were speaking of the weather.

The room had darkened, and the walls seemed to widen. The air reeked of stale water and stone.

"Why have you so drastically regressed?" His voice echoed bizarrely, as though they were in a cave. "What is it, that you cannot even manage your warm-up exercises?"

She stole a glance at him, perplexed. He cast a shadow against the wall, as though merging with darkness itself. The lights flickered. Somewhere, she could hear the soft scattering of rats and the quiet murmuring of water in a hidden pipe.

"Whether it is your foolish fears, or that silly blonde friend of yours, or that _boy!_" he suddenly exploded. "Your concentration flies out the window! The sound you make – it is _wretched!"_ His hand crashed upon the piano, the cluster ringing violently. "What sorry excuse do you have this time? What _lies_ will you provide me now?" His voice dripped with disgust.

Her mind reeled, his terrible roar assaulting her ears. What on earth was he ranting about? Who was this stranger, so unlike the aloof, mysterious Erik Arnaut she knew? Why was her body so tense? Why did she hunch over, as though ashamed? Why did it seem as though they had suddenly transported into a nightmare?

"Maestro, I-I..." she stuttered, upset. She fell silent, unable to complete her sentence. She felt an awful burning in her cheeks, tears pricking the edges of her eyes.

His gaze lifted at the broken tone of her voice, sudden realization weighing in his eyes. His mouth opened, then closed. He looked away, silent for long moment.

Christine felt the heaviness lift, a familiar warmth comfort her being. Bizarre as it seemed, it was almost as though _he_ were absorbing _her_ pain.

"Until you know how to breathe," he stated quietly, "there is no point in having you sing."

She looked up, at once disoriented and baffled. The room stared innocently back. There were no shadows upon the wall.

He was staring stubbornly at the floor.

She observed him from behind her lashes. "So teach me how to breathe."

He still couldn't meet her gaze, admitting with reluctance, "I will have to show you."

"Fine."

He stood, stiffly approaching. "Here." He placed a hand lightly upon her abdomen. "Breathe in, so that your diaphragm moves into my hand."

She inhaled.

"The action isn't only up. The action pushes out," he explained. "Try again."

She breathed in once more.

"Christine, stop holding in your stomach." His breath tickled against her neck.

She felt herself grow warm, embarrassed. It would look fat if she were push her abdomen outward with every inhalation. She turned toward him for guidance, freezing as her cheek bumped against cold porcelain.

All warmth which had comforted her for a few, precious moments vanished.

He jumped back, hastily adjusting the mask, eyeing her warily.

She stared, her eyes riveted upon the mask.

"You are far too tense," he growled. He continued to stand a good distance away, a dangerous edge in his voice. "I suppose _my_ presence does not help.…" His gaze leveled upon hers. "Do I make you uncomfortable, Miss Day?"

Her eyes shifted from the mask to meet the iciness of his glare. In the same moment, she was shocked by the directness of his question.

"E-excuse me...?" she stuttered.

He didn't appear to be listening, staring at the wall with an unreadable expression.

In truth, she was acutely aware of his presence. His movements were so graceful, his appearance so intriguing, she could scarcely take her eyes from him. She had barely been able to concentrate as he stood silently behind her, feeling his gaze upon her body as he observed the position of her torso. Her heart had fluttered at the smallest contact of his fingers.

"There was once a time," he began softly, "when a _little girl_ couldn't restrain her curiosity and pulled off my mask." He turned, glaring daggers. "But you wouldn't do that, would you?"

Her eyes widened at his uncanny question. Her lips parted, about to explain.

"No," he bit out, his jaw set, "don't say anything. You've said enough by your incessant _staring_. But..." His eyes hardened. "Perhaps it would be easier for you to relax..._without visual distraction.…_"

His arm moved, and she heard the faintest click of a switch. Suddenly, Christine found herself plunged into darkness.

"I do not enjoy being scrutinized, Miss Day!" he hissed. "Nor am I some side show to _gawk_ at!"

Christine gasped at his sudden outburst. Surely he had misunderstood!

"You would be wise to consider the direction of your gaze. You would be even wiser to reconsider your earlier attempt at blackmail."

Her breath quickened at his unexpected reference to her earlier threat.

"You want to sing, Miss Day?" His tone turned cruel. "Then get used to the dark. That is the only place where your singing belongs! Perhaps Sophocles will _enlighten_ you, my dear. It was he who wrote: 'It is only within the cover of darkness, that one can be ashamed of what one does, without the shame of disgrace'. But you, _you fortunate fool_ – you have no idea 'what pangs of agonizing memory'!"

Christine swallowed her panic, confused and horrified by his furious onslaught. Was the man psychologically unstable? How could he be irrational one moment and completely tender the next?

Without warning, she felt his lips by her ears, his tone harsh and hateful. She stumbled backwards, but he caught her, forcing her to submit to his grasp. Shocked by the skeletal coldness of his hands upon her bare arms, she released a terrified cry.

"You need to _feel_ the center of your body! You need to _listen_ to the beauty of the silence, then to the passing of your breath!" He continued, his voice relentless and demanding. "What gives more meaning to music than silence? And what is singing, without the passing of the breath? How can you not know any of this?!"

With frightening speed, he embraced her, and Christine nearly fainted.

"_Breathe_," he urged, his voice deep and hypnotic. "Relax completely. You will not fall."

She squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled, feeling the passage of air through her lips. Her body leaned upon his, and a frosty sensation moved slowly from head to toe.

"If you are to sing, you _must_ know the joy in singing," he whispered roughly. "At least, you must remember this..._ in the very least!_... Close your eyes..."

Christine had no choice but to obey. She felt him tilt her backward, until her feet no longer touched the ground. Then, she experienced the oddest sensation, as though they were rising... no, floating. She felt a warm softness press upon her mouth, gently parting her lips. Her eyes flickered open at the contact in shock, but his hand weaved its way through her hair, cradling her neck and preventing escape.

Before her mind could form cohesive thought, her spirit swelled with elation. She heard the unmistakable sound of singing, felt a string of foreign words flow effortlessly through her lips, experienced the thrill of her voice passing through her being, and felt the trembling of the air as the hall erupted in applause. Flowers rained down upon the stage, the cheers of the audience growing louder and louder. Her lips lifted into a smile as she noticed the handsome young man waving furiously at her from the balcony.

Gradually, the clapping quieted, and all that was left was her breath merging with his, her song joining his. She drank of him greedily, her lips pulling at his, savoring the forbidden music passing between.

Christine opened her eyes to see her maestro kneeling beside her. The lights were on, and she was lying upon the floor. His face was inches away from hers.

"W-what?" she stuttered. She felt a warm wetness upon her cheek, and blinked the residue of tears from her eyes.

"You fainted," he murmured, his gaze averted. "I frighten you."

"Fr-frighten?" she echoed. Exactly _what_ had passed between them? She touched her fingers to her lips, her brow furrowing. What was this lingering sweetness upon her lips? Had they—had they really—? No, she couldn't believe it.

"Drink." He handed her a glass of water.

She took a gulp, her eyes never leaving his.

He looked exhausted, she realized. If possible, he was paler than before. Once again, he reminded her of marble. Yet there was something different about him.

Once again, his hands were shaking.

"This is our first and last lesson," he announced, standing.

Disappointment weighed upon her being. "What…?"

"It is time for you to go, Miss Day." He held out a hand to help her stand.

Wearily, she accepted his hand, then allowed him to help her put on her coat.

He escorted her to the door, pausing for a moment. He looked down, almost ashamed, then regarded her with renewed aloofness. "Please do not return."

She left without a word.


	36. Carnival

**Chapter 36: Carnival**

**  
**As soon as Christine reached the street, she broke into a run. The sun was out, though the day was cold. Rather than heading back home, she found herself escaping to the park. The trees seemed to blur and bow around her as she blindly rushed past them. Happy couples continued to stroll and admire the flowers, oblivious to the young woman as she hurried past.

Exactly what had Mr. Arnaut done to her?

She stopped, breathing heavily, ignoring the racing of her heart. Gingerly touching her lips, she flushed. The taste upon her lips – it had been as forbidden as it was elusive.

He had been the one who had pulled away from her, she suddenly realized. He had broken off their kiss. He had kissed her elegantly, resurrected a precious piece of her soul, then left her craving more.

Secretly, she wanted to kiss that man again. She wanted to taste his passion. She wanted to feel the warmth of his soul pressed against her own.

'Oh God,' she wondered, 'what am I thinking?'

She _knew_ this man...somewhere...somehow...

Christine stumbled to a nearby tree, leaning heavily against the trunk for a moment, attempting to collect her thoughts.

Painstakingly, she reflected upon what had happened. The images of the cheering audience, the falling flowers, the man in the balcony floated by... Yet she could not grasp the specific details. What had she been singing? What color were the flowers? What was the face of the man in the balcony? Where had those visions come from? Why had they occurred? The hallucinations had seemed so _real_ during his kiss – the sounds, the smells, the energy. They had been so vivid, as though she had truly experienced them.

Upon her lips remained only the remnants of something bittersweet.

Listlessly, she wandered on.

She did not notice the object of her contemplation watching her from behind. She did not see his expression of frustrated relief as she narrowly avoided colliding with a cyclist. She did not hear his footsteps as he continued to follow her.

Soft, tinkling music caught her attention. Christine looked up, finding herself walking toward a crowd. Laughing children with painted faces passed by, their playful shouts pulling at her heartstrings. Everywhere she looked, children swarmed her view. There was a carnival with miniature rides, massive balloons, face-painting stalls, and vendors selling cotton candy and hot dogs.

Christine observed a popular vendor as he joked with groups of children and parents. A moment later, he presented an assortment of trinkets, wands, weapons, wings, armor, hats, and masks. Even some of the parents wore masks, had their faces painted, and bore "magical" items.

In that moment, she felt something bump into her. A little girl in a blue dress smiled up at her.

Christine's eyes widened, and she found herself reaching desperately for the child.

The little girl vanished.

Christine suddenly grew aware of the tears coursing down her cheeks. Horrified, she wiped her eyes with her sleeves, embarrassed someone might notice. She stood and walked, attempting to hide her face. The tears continued relentlessly, as though her spirit were bleeding.

Oh god, what was happening? When would her tears stop? Why did they flow?

She rushed to a quieter spot, away from the crowd and laughing children. The episode worsened, causing her to choke upon her breath while trying to stifle her noisy, inexplicable sobbing. The little girl's image continued to haunt her. Christine attempted to calm herself, taking deep breaths.

"_Oh_ _Christine_..."

Whirling around, she looked frantically about her. "Angel...?"

Only a hint of warmth remained.

That was when Christine noticed a shadow in the distance, merging with a group of men in business suits, as they swiftly walked away.

Christine grew panicked, running after the rapidly receding presence.

"Angel!"

She rushed into the crowd, searching. Grabbing a man, she spun him around. The stranger gazed back, perplexed.

Heedless, she seized another man.

"Miss?" The man watched her, incredulous as she rudely shoved past.

Christine blinked away tears. Why had her angel fled? Why hadn't he stayed and comforted her? Where had he been all this time?

_Forget me...forget all of this...Forget all you've seen..._

A ghostly voice seemed to emerge from the shadows.

'Forget what?' she wondered furiously, attempting to concentrate despite the raging pain in her temples.

The migraine only intensified as the sad, ghostly voice continued to whisper.

_Go now...don't let them find you..._

Covering her ears, Christine continued to stumble through the crowd, oblivious to the by-standers who turned toward her in dismay

_...Take the boat. Swear to me never to tell the secrets..._

"Secrets," Christine echoed, wincing. Holding her head, she swayed side to side, bumping into an elderly woman who turned toward her with a frown.

_...the secrets of an angel in hell..._

Christine moaned, the waves of pain growing unbearable.

_Christine, I...I..._

Violently, the scene shifted, drowning out the sad, ghostly voice. Everywhere, laughing masked and painted faces mocked her. Grotesque, detuned carnival music repeated over and over like a broken record.

Christine felt herself swept up into a strange dance, twirling to an incessant beat. Cackling demons turned her round and round.

_Masquerade! Paper faces on parade...Hide your face, so the world will never find you!_

The cheering grew frenzied, the dance faster and faster. A woman with a feathered mask swirled past, grinning maliciously at her. A couple in elaborate garb turned and mockingly bowed.

Parents steered their children away from her, watching in silent disapproval. Others skipped past, humming. A pair of twins giggled, the boy eating cotton candy while the girl held an ice cream cone.

Christine spun on, lost.

_Masquerade! Every face a different shade! Look around...there's another mask behind you!_

A woman, heavily-made up, shrieked and pointed. Others jeered and yanked on a chain she hadn't realized she was wearing around her neck. Dangling at the bottom of the chain was a ring.

"Stop!" Christine cried, panicked. "Stop!" She grabbed the ring protectively, shielding it from groping hands.

_Masquerade! Grinning yellows, spinning reds...Take your fill - let the spectacle astound you!_

The music grew deafening, the blissful carnival music blending with the strange, sinister waltz.

Children and parents floated past, turning to stare in hushed silence. Others scurried past with ducked heads.

Blindly, Christine rushed on, feeling herself spun from one masked dancer to the next, the object of their playful malevolence.

_Masquerade! Every face a different shade! Look around...there's another mask behind you!_

The song had become a deafening roar.

Helplessly, Christine attempted to escape the multitude of gloved hands which began pushing her in one direction. She felt herself thrown upon the floor, her ankle twisting painfully beneath her. Shivering, she saw a figure dressed entirely in red, a plum hat hiding his face. He took one menacing step forward, his blazing gaze riveted upon her, lifting a bony hand to seize the chain at her throat.

At that moment, a voice called her name. "Christine!"

A sudden, violent wind flung the red-plum hat from his face.

She screamed, realizing his face consisted only of a gaping chasm.

"Christine! What is it?"

She felt someone shaking her, urging her to respond.

The phantom released the chain, and instead turned away, hiding his tears.

"Christine!"

Hands slapped at her face.

She opened her eyes, finding herself in the arms of her friend.

A small crowd had gathered, watching and whispering.

"Ray," she managed weakly. "Oh Ray..."

Her vision blurred, and she fainted.


	37. Promises

**Chapter 37: Promises**

Christine awoke slowly, finding herself tucked comfortably in her bed. Confused, she rolled over and checked the clock. It was 8 PM. Had she really been asleep for over _five hours_? Outside, it had already grown dark. Only the street lights streamed through the curtained windows.

Through the dim light, she see a note, left by her bedside. Christine sat up, holding the paper to the slanted light from the windows.

**Chris,**

**Sorry I can't stay. I've got a meeting downtown. Call me when you wake up! Hope you feel better.**

**Love,  
Ray  
**  
Sighing, Christine lay back in bed. She was suddenly and inexplicably depressed. Her 'episode' in the Park had left her emotionally drained.

All she could remember was that she had been wearing a chain and that _he_, who was supposed to tear away the chain and free her, had failed to do so. The invisible chain still hung around her neck. Even now, she could feel its weight.

At that moment, a quiet clinking from the kitchen caught Christine's attention. She froze, wondering who the intruder could be.

Had Ray returned from his meeting to check up on her? Was he here now?

The noise in the other room quieted, and an oppressive hush once again fell over the apartment.

Slowly, Christine got out of bed. She tiptoed from the bedroom, moving barefoot along the corridor. The hallway seemed unnaturally long, the corners stretching into shadows.

She hesitated, catching whiff of a delicious aroma – the scent of basil, chicken, vegetables, and garlic – all freshly cooked.

But who was in her kitchen, preparing food in the dark?

A draft rushed through the wide-open window, and Christine gasped in confusion, "Angel...?"

There was the sound of silverware dropping, followed by a whirl of motion. In less than a second, she found her back pressed tightly against a wall of muscle, gloved hands holding her securely in place.

_"Do not turn around."_

His voice was very low, as though he were speaking to her in secret.

Even so, she automatically turned toward him, but found herself thwarted. Many times, especially after the death of the Allisons, he had held her, but he had felt like a comforting warmth, as insubstantial and elusive as heat itself. Yet here he was, standing behind her, feeling _very_ solid...

Impulsively, she reached back, dragging her questing fingertips along the side of his torso. Yes, he was _very_ firm, very firm indeed. She could even feel the muscles leap at her touch.

He inhaled sharply and quickly caught her wrist, preventing her from further exploration.

After a pregnant pause, he dropped her hand back by her side.

"Is it you, Angel?" she asked, her voice low and trembling. "Is it really you?"

Behind her, his body remained tense.

"Where have you been?" she suddenly demanded.

The outside noise seemed to fade, as though the world itself were listening.

"I was afraid," she confessed, "so afraid you had left."

He said nothing.

"We've talked every night for the past few months, and suddenly, you disappear for days and days."

The silence of his response seemed to stretch and linger.

"Why did you leave?" she cried, feeling him shudder behind her. "Why did you say nothing in the Park?"

She could smell his scent, a spicy cologne which somehow seemed familiar.

"I-I don't understand," she stammered.

"I have not been fulfilling my duty..." he began reluctantly.

"What do you mean?"

"You need _human_ friends, _human_ love, _human_ company." Her angel's voice was nearly inaudible, yet each word emerged with perfect clarity. "I have been meddling too much with your life. It is my fault entirely…."

She stilled, feeling herself grow cold. "What are you talking about?"

His hands upon her had begun to tremble.

"My presence should have never been known to you..."

"No." Her heart swelled with renewed hurt. "I don't understand…. What are you trying to say?"

He placed a hand over hers, entwining gloved fingers with her own. She felt the heat of his breath by her ear, and she stilled, flushed.

"Forgive me," he whispered. "I have not been good for you. I gave into temptation. I agreed to do something which should have never been done. And now, I cannot break away...."

She felt something enfold her, like a soft, warm cloak, and she blinked, observing in amazement as he pressed her even more intimately against him, enveloping them both in his wings.

"Angel...?" she whispered, wanting to reach out and touch the feathers.

His hand lingered for a moment before he let go, releasing her hand.

Her fingers left the barest trace upon his wings, and she felt him sharply inhale.

"You're shaking," she stated.

"A mortal's touch...especially on an angel's wings," he managed between gritted teeth, "is forbidden."

Instantly, she pulled her hand back. "Oh God, does it hurt?"

He did not reply, instead reaching out and giving a yank.

"Angel!" Even she had felt that acute pain as he plucked out a feather.

Behind her, he shuddered.

"So that you may never lose your way, Christine," he murmured, offering the pristine, white feather. "You must never doubt me.... You must not give into the darkness...."

"You... you didn't have to do that," she blurted, taking the beautiful feather, marveling at its silvery glow in the dim light.

"Keep it with you, as you have kept my other feather," he muttered, though the impression of her fingertips still burned upon his wings. "Let it guide you back to your path. Let it light your way. Let it make wings for your dreams...."

Christine clutched the feather gratefully. Sighing, she leaned against his warmth.

"We should have never met... as such," he said at length.

"No," she plead softly, "don't... don't say that, Angel."

If anything, she loved her angel more than anyone else. She could never regret their time together. That was why his sudden absence had made her so upset.

"One day, you will fall in love with a young man and marry," he continued. "You will have a family. You will become beloved by all. Yours will be a happy and beautiful life. You will no longer need my guidance...."

"But you are my family!" she exclaimed, tears springing to her eyes.

"The point is, my dear," he stated bluntly, "none of these things will come to pass if you are content _only_ in the company of your angel. That is why I should never have contacted you in the first place. You must explore relationships, to risk being hurt, to live and love in the company of other _mortals_. You cannot depend upon an angel to satisfy all these things...."

"You're afraid I am ignoring my life because of you?" she asked, though it felt her heart were breaking.

"I do not _fear_," he corrected. "I observe it happening. You have already begun to stray off-path. You are disinterested in your young man. You are even losing interest in painting..."

She sighed, "But what is wrong with being content with your company?"

"You need _real_ people...with whom you can...." His voice broke off, fading, and she realized he was more devastated than he wished to reveal.

"Angel?" she called, alarmed.

His grip tightened around her.

"Promise me you will return to your happy, uncomplicated life. Promise me you will paint. Promise me you will leave for Europe..."

"Europe, angel?" Christine asked softly. "Is it your wish that I go? I- I've never traveled outside the country before...."

"It is the mortal way to fear that which is unknown and that which must change," he replied, his voice quiet and gentle. "Continue to believe in me, beloved. Continue along your bright and happy path. Do not give into the temptation to know the darkness, for it shall weaken my ability to protect you against those inner demons which threaten to consume you...."

Her curiosity leapt at his response. "Is that why you don't wish me to sing?"

"That is part of it," he admitted. "The stronger your belief and hopes, the stronger I am to guide and protect you. But if your faith in me were to be shattered...." His voice lowered. "If you were to doubt me again… .If you were to...."

Christine leaned back, relaxing into his embrace. Slowly, so as to not startle him, she placed her hands over his gloved ones.

He fell silent, but did not pull away.

The ticking of the clock crawled to a stop. The beautifully-arranged plate of food lay forgotten. Outside, the residual street noise melted into silence.

For one moment – one eternal moment – the woman and her angel held onto each other in perfect, forbidden bliss.

"What is it like," she wondered aloud, "what is it like to be an angel?"

She felt him sigh, then heard the rumble of his voice against her hair.

"When a tree dies, I hear its moan. Even the clouds cry before it rains. The earth is constantly shifting, adjusting to the actions of humanity. And do you know, Christine, that there are other existences undetected by the human perception besides angels? Beings which exist between life and death...."

"Tell me more..." She shivered, instinctively seeking his warmth, and his grip tightened around her once again. "I want to know the world through your eyes…."

"You should not wish for that," he corrected quickly. "The world was not kind to me...."

"What do you mean?" She turned her head to look up at him, but his hand slipped from under hers and caught her chin.

"Watching the world is like looking up and observing the waves of an ocean while underwater," he continued patiently. "There are storms which will cause turbulence, but they do not last forever...."

Christine sighed against him, savoring his warmth, his voice, the images conjured in the imagination.

"The level of awareness is raised exponentially," he said at length. "Humans can only perceive a certain degree of depth. Mortals, especially those who make quick judgments, see only the surface of things. The mind then responds to this surface perception. It is constantly guesswork on the part of mortals. The wise man endeavors to delay judgment of others and attempts to penetrate the heart of the matter. But more often, humans become distracted by manifestations, rather than the matter itself...."

His voice trailed off, allowing the silence to settle and widen.

"Then can you see," she whispered tentatively, "what is in my heart? Can you penetrate the depths of my soul?"

He grew very still, and she could feel him peering _through_ her. Then, she felt a strange sense of weight, as though a space which had been empty was now occupied by an unobtrusive guest. Slowly, as though not to alarm her, he shifted. She shuddered, experiencing the sensation of a layer being _peeled_ away to expose more and more spirit underneath. It was an almost crushing vulnerability.

"That was only one layer I've exposed," he whispered against her. "And you request I go deeper, all the way to your heart? Could you bear that sort of intrusion, Christine?"

She shuddered. She could feel him watching every, little movement and observing every naked thought. Yet she _wanted_ those angelic eyes to rake over her body and heart with the same intensity....

"You do not know what you ask for," he stated quietly.

Her heart raced. Did he already know her desire? Her blasphemous longing for _him_?

"Can you not be satisfied with what is?" he murmured. "Why must you demand more? Let it be, Christine...." His tone was strained.

Though he spoke tenderly, his words were breaking her heart.

For a moment, neither dared to speak.

Then, he shifted, exiting the space in her soul and taking with him the weight with which she had felt his presence.

"Forget singing. Do not continue your music lessons. Erik Arnaut is a dangerous man."

Dismayed, Christine noticed his hands were trembling.

His voice lowered to a murmur._ "He might never let you go."_

His fingers threaded through her hair, and Christine shivered at the caress.

Crushing her against him, his lips moved by her ear.

_"Promise me you will stay away from that man."_

Before she could respond, she felt herself thrown from his grasp. She gasped at his sudden departure, feeling instead a cold emptiness in the air. When she turned around, she was all alone.


	38. The Unmistakable Gaze

_A/N: Many thanx to **Gravity01** for previewing this chapter. Thank you, dear readers, for your patience. _

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* * *

_**Chapter 38: The Unmistakable Gaze**

During the next week, Christine found herself swept into another world. Oddly enough, being in Europe felt as though she were on her way home after a very long absence. The lifestyle, the people, the pace all held her within their strangely-familiar embrace. The days passed swiftly, leaving Christine occupied with interviews, professional, and social obligations.

Christine had never seen so many sites before, with their overwhelming, history-ridden architecture. Entertained by acquaintances of her mysterious benefactor, Christine found herself wined and dined at the finest of restaurants and invited to museums, ballets, and concerts. There was scarcely a moment when she was alone.

Her angel, dedicated as ever, tutored her on the etiquette of the Dutch, the Italians, the Germans, the French. He was strict in his demands that she learn common words in the various languages, especially in respect to manners and food. He also coached her through her interview responses, challenging her to respond to a variety of questions.

Although she imagined 'catching' him as she had done the previous week in her apartment, she could not even grasp a trace of his warmth. If anything, he was more impenetrable and formal than before. It was as though every evening, he spoke to her through a wall.

Christine attempted to swallow her disappointment. She should be satisfied, should she not? Her angel gave her divine, unconditional love. He nurtured her art. He offered her the world.

Yet night after night, she dreamt of being in his arms and enveloped in his wings. Secretly, she imagined his warm lips pressed against her own. She would feel her head tilted back, her back arching against him, her lips drinking of him. Then, she would awaken, scandalized by the raw, sensual energy racing through her body like a flame. She would try not to wonder why her dream so closely resembled Erik Arnaut's kiss.

It was a quiet evening in Berlin when Christine decided to attend the opera. All the social and professional obligations during the past few days had taken their toll, and she was happy to have some time for herself. Mozart's _Don Giovanni_ was showing tonight, and she had been looking forward to it all week.

As she strolled the street, however, she had the feeling of being followed. The little hairs rose on the back of her neck, and Christine paused, turning around.

"Angel?"

Somewhere, across the street, she could see a shadow elongated by the street light. A car passed by, temporarily obscuring her view, and the shadow vanished.

Although Christine was used to her angel watching over her, his presence was generally unobtrusive, as in a subtle warmth. Recently, however, she hadn't been able to detect his presence at all. She wasn't sure if her pursuer was her angel or a stranger.

If it was her angel, why didn't he say anything? Then again, she was reminded of the time her angel had called to her in Central Park. She had shamelessly sought him out, even accosting strangers in her search for him. When he had visited her last week, he had prevented her from catching sight of him. Although the idea seemed absurd, it was almost as though he were _afraid_ of her seeing him. But why?

A few minutes later, Christine arrived at the Deutsch Oper, quickly presenting her ticket and darting inside. When she arrived at the hall, she cast another glance over her shoulder before taking her seat.

Soon, the overture ended, and the curtain rose. Don Giovanni appeared dressed in black leather, and Leporello in jeans and a cap. Although the singing was excellent, it was quite a while before Christine began to relax and an even longer time before she could appreciate the creative, modernized adaptation of Mozart's opera.

As the lights returned during intermission, however, so did the feeling of being watched. Christine stood abruptly, turning in the direction of the gaze. In the back of the hall, she noticed a dark figure whose face was obscured by a hat.

At the same time, she felt a tap upon her shoulder.

_"Entschuldigung." _ An elderly woman stood, waiting with an irritated expression upon her face.

"Oh sorry!" Christine replied automatically. She was blocking the aisle. She grabbed her bag and rushed in the direction the man had been standing.

He had disappeared.

After a few minutes of futile searching, Christine returned to the hall. Still, she could not rid herself of the feeling she was being observed. Ignoring the curious stares of other audience members, she ran all the way toward the front of the stage, moving directly toward the middle of the first row. Then, she turned, looking out at the balcony.

Suddenly, she saw him – or rather a pair of golden eyes – as the rest of him was shrouded completely in shadow. He stood at the back of the box seats, motionless. For a long, unnerving moment, he stoically met her gaze.

Christine shivered, feeling exposed, yet unable to turn away. There was something unconcerned in his stare, as though it were perfectly normal for him to be watching her without her being able to clearly see him. Because he was so still, she began to wonder whether it was a man or a statue who gazed back. Even though she blinked several times, his gaze never wavered.

It was at that moment when her vision, triggered by Erik Arnaut's kiss, swam before her eyes. Once again, she was standing at the center of the stage having just finished singing. The handsome young man waved enthusiastically from the balcony, and all around, flowers showered the stage. But this time, she noticed something else...or rather, _someone_ else.

The same tall shadow which was currently staring at her had also been watching her in her vision. Even as Christine noticed the handsome man in the balcony, her own gaze had been directed toward the shadows of the box seats, to the place where an eerie voice had emerged:

_Bravi...bravi...bravissimo..._

Impulsively, Christine took out a pencil, finding a blank space on the concert program. The pencil moved upon the paper as though in a mad dance, automatically filling in the shadows, the numerous rows, the magnificent chandeliers, the wide eyes of the spectators, the clapping, the young man leaning over the balcony and waving...

Her hand faltered. There was something familiar about that young man.

At that moment, a flicker of light caught her eye, and she found herself drawn toward the right margin of her sketch. She had drawn _him_ in that spot, a pair of glowing eyes peering out from the darkness.

Christine's eyes narrowed, scrutinizing that spot. Yes, he was there, staring out from the darkness at her, the singer. Slowly, she filled in the details, shading in the area so that almost everything was concealed in darkness. Only twin specks of light hinted at _his_ presence, the mark of his gaze, staring.

The pencil fell to the floor as Christine, slack-jawed, realized three things.

First, the man in the balcony bore striking resemblance to Ray.

Secondly, the figure in the shadows of her sketch was not only staring out at the singer – he was also gazing past the boundaries of the painting and at the viewer._..at her._

Lastly, the gaze, unmistakably, belonged to Erik Arnaut.


End file.
